


And What Comes After

by ExpatGirl



Series: Alternate Season 11 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (which incidentally will be the name of my riot grrrl revival band), Alternate Season/Series 11, Angel True Forms, Angels, Background Alex/Claire, Background Femslash, Castiel's True Form, Dean and Jimmy bond over being bad at words, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Dean is sweet and concerned in this, Established Relationship, F/F, Family Issues, Gentleness, Hannah Lives, Healing, Hope vs. Despair, Hope's kinda the whole point, Illnesses, Kindness, M/M, Memory Loss, POV Sam Winchester, Philosophy, Post Darkness, Post-Mark of Cain, Quasi Post-Apocalyptic, Sam Deserves to be Happy, Season/Series 11, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking if we're using the USA's arbitrary drinking age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/pseuds/ExpatGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Darkness goes, what comes after? Who comes after?</p><p> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four Kingdoms

**Author's Note:**

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> Work title taken from a line in Allen Ginsberg's "[Kaddish](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179391)". 
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> Set after _What is Hidden, What is Seen_.

The dead were gentle in their rebuke, the way they never were in life. They filled the filaments of light bulbs and gave out light from their absent bodies. They rustled between the pages of books, exhaling impossible air, finding lost places with invisible fingers. They crowded the corners of rooms. They kept their hands by their sides as they followed him with their eyes, and their looks were only sad, not seething. They did not _blame_ him, they seemed to say, they only wished to understand _why_. _Was it worth it?_ they asked with their unmoving mouths. But they did not pursue him.

Dean staggered back from them, anyway. He tried to get to his bedroom, and to the iron fittings and bags of salt that he kept there. He never made it. The air turned thick around him and he struggled against it, like running through muddy water. It grew thicker with each step, until he was stuck fast, trapped. And still they only watched him. They looked, unblinking, and their silent, despairing faces would not be denied.

It was usually when he saw Castiel’s face, bloodied and broken, amongst their number that he woke up. He did so now, drawing in a deep breath, as though he’d just emerged from an icy pool. He came back to himself, nerve by nerve. He assessed the press of gravity against his body, the weight of the sheet over his chest. The empty space next to him. The darkness around him was only ordinary darkness, the stillness only ordinary stillness.

The door opened.

“Dean?” Cas’ voice shivered through his sleep-warm body. Dean propped himself up on his elbows and blinked at the indistinct silhouette in the doorway.

“Was I yelling?” He battled back a wave of humiliation at the thought. He rarely cried out in his sleep anymore. He’d gotten good at having nightmares.

“Yelling? No, you weren’t…” Cas confusion was almost palpable as he pulled the door closed. He walked towards the bed silently. Barefoot, then. He’d taken to doing that. Dean still reeled at the novelty of it, and the way the world tilted slightly every time Cas sat down on the edge of the bed with the intention of staying. “You weren’t yelling,” Cas said, from much closer up. Dean could tell he’d angled his body to look down at him. But he didn’t reach for him.

“Huh?” Dean’s head still felt like an oil-smudged lense. He forced himself back into a semblance of consciousness and hoped it would be enough.

Now that he thought about it, this wasn’t the first time in the past few days that Cas had appeared, as if on cue, after this exact same nightmare. “Wait, if I wasn’t yelling, how’d you know to come in here?” _And why weren’t you in bed, anyway_ , he almost asked, but didn’t.

Cas still didn’t reach for him, and he didn’t answer. He got like this sometimes, in the hours just before dawn. His soles touched the earth when he walked through their home, but right now he seemed more angel than ever. His form was solid and warm and human, sitting there ten inches from Dean, but there was something else, something wild and immense, under the skin. Those ten inches might as well have been light years. He turned to look at Dean over his shoulder.

“What were you dreaming about?”

Dean blinked and laid back. “I don’t...know.”

“You don’t know?”

Was that a lie? Dean wasn’t sure. He could describe the dream, more or less, though the finer details skated away from him. He offered up the bones instead. So often it was all he had.

“Not really. I mean, it’s just, uh. It’s not a typical nightmare. It’s not a nightmare at _all_ , actually. There are ghosts. Just...ghosts everywhere I look, and I can’t get away from them. I try to run and I can’t.” There was, of course, one detail he could remember with startling clarity, but he kept it to himself.

Here, at last, a hand reached out to him through the dark, tracing a gentle line from forearm to shoulder, before settling against his heart.

“Sounds like a nightmare to me.”

“No, man,” Dean said, frustrated, realizing that Cas was going to worry about him now. “It wasn’t. I swear.”

“Hmm,” Cas said, and began running his hand slowly from the notch of Dean’s breastbone down to his stomach, and the back up again, over the fabric of his shirt. “I 'm fairly inexperienced with dreaming, but I’m familiar enough with the process to recognize a nightmare when I hear one. Or do you think this was some sort of vision?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. But it wasn’t a nightmare, okay? They weren’t, like, _after me_ ,” Dean said, feeling slightly dazed. Dimly he realized that he was being petted, that Cas was _petting him_ , but the soothing pattern repeating against his body was too pleasant to fight. There was no one to see, anyway. “There were just so many of them. You know, just staring, not doing anything. The wanted...they wanted,” he began, but then the thought slipped away. What had they wanted? He couldn’t quite remember now.

Cas stayed his hand, halfway through its course. Dean wondered if Cas could read the writing hidden in the flesh with his fingertips.

Cas didn’t say anything, but finally moved, until he was sliding under the covers, maneuvering Dean on to his side and slotting in tightly behind him. Cas wrapped one arm around Dean’s waist, then ran his thumb lightly across the expanse of skin where Dean’s shirt hem sagged. Dean’s breath caught slightly, but Cas maintained a northerly trajectory. His quiet fingers crept up to return to the space they’d vacated a moment ago, the palm flat, as though Cas were trying to press some secret knowledge into him.

“The dead want nothing, Dean. Or at least, they shouldn’t. You say they weren’t vengeful?”

“No.”

“They weren’t trying to pass on a message to you?”

“Not...the kind you mean.”

“I see. So, probably not a vision or a visitation. Did you recognize any of the faces?”

“I…” Dean exhaled sharply. “Yes.”

There was a pause. “People you feel you’ve wronged in some way?”

Dean could only nod mutely against his pillow. He felt Cas’ breath against the back of his neck.

“Then I’m afraid that’s all you, my friend.”

“You saying I’ve got a guilt complex or something?”

“Whole religious orders could be built on it.”

“Hey,” Dean said weakly, but could not raise a more eloquent protest.

“Shhh,” Cas said. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

They both knew it was a lie. But Cas was giving him and out, and he took it.

“Sure,” Dean said, settling back further against Cas’ body. “How are you doing, anyway?”

“Me?” Cas still reacted with bafflement whenever someone enquired about his welfare. “I’m fine.”

Bafflement and evasion, actually. Dean knew that dance.

“Cas, seriously…” He pushed away, and Cas let him go. Dean rolled over to face him, knowing that Cas would see his face clearly, in spite of the dark. “I’m letting you play Dr Freud here with me, man. Fair’s fair. Spill.”

“I...don’t really...” Cas said, dragging the words through the thick air between them. “What do you want me to, uh, spill, exactly?”

“Something’s eating you.”

Cas sighed. “Dean, metaphors.”

“Huh? You’re fine with metaphors. Mostly.”

“I am now, yeah. But angels struggle with figurative speech. You know that.”

“So? You’re not like them.”

Cas had settled his hand at the bend above Dean’s hip, and Dean felt it twitch, then go still. For a moment he was silent. “Most angels,” he amended, in a calm voice, “don’t do well with human figures of speech. There are angelic figures of speech, of course, but...they don’t translate easily. I just want you to, um, bear that in mind, given what we’ll be doing in the days to come.”

Dean squinted at him through the dark. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” Cas did not withdraw his hand, but it sounded like he wanted to. “I’m saying that angels are frustrating creatures, from the human perspective. I know this. But try not to hold it against them.” He let out a shaky breath.

The sound reminded Dean that he, too, should probably breathe, and that he’d forgotten to do so for the past few minutes. “You’re afraid I’m going to act like a dick to your family and embarrass you, is what you’re saying.”

Well, that was harsher than he intended. He felt Cas flinch, the barest hint of movement. “Sorry, I...”

“We have to rebuild, and we have to do it together,” Cas said, interrupting. He still hadn’t moved. Dean was suddenly struck with the unhappy realization that Cas was treating his own hand as an anchor, holding himself in place. He was forcing himself to continue this conversation—the conversation that might have actually been two conversations, or maybe even three, Dean wasn’t sure—despite wanting to flee. Cas’ wings worked, now. He could be halfway across the world before Dean blinked. But he stayed where he was. “I just want…” Dean heard him swallow, and wished desperately that he could see his face, but didn’t dare move to turn on the light. “I _don’t_ think you’re a dick,” Cas said, suddenly changing tack. He sounded so contrite that Dean, naturally, felt like just that. “Or rather, no more of one than I am. Much less so, in fact. I just...I want this to work, Dean. It _has_ to work.”

Dean felt thrown, out of his depth, and fought down the urge to get up and begin pacing. If Cas could hold himself here for this, then he could, too. “It’ll work,” he said, mustering up as much conviction as he could. “I want to fix things as bad as you do, okay? So I’ll do whatever. No metaphors, no...figures of speech, no dumb references. I’ll be as literal as a…aw, damn it.”

Cas laughed at that, and Dean couldn’t help but do the same.

“No, no,” Cas said quietly, and pulled Dean closer to him, suddenly flesh-and-blood. “You misunderstand me. I like how humans...how you talk. I certainly wouldn’t put a proscription on the way you express yourself.” _Fuck knows it’s hard enough to get you to do it in the first place_ , Dean imagined Cas saying to himself. “I’m just saying it will probably be challenging for you. Not just about how they communicate, I mean _everything_. They’ll learn. You just have to let them prove themselves.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, Cas, okay.” Dean leaned in and found his mouth in the dark. “I know it’s important. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Just ask.”

“Hmm,” Cas said, landing another kiss with much more precision than Dean had managed, and oh yeah, angelic vision, able to see in all spectra of light, apparently. “Just ask,” Cas repeated. He kissed Dean again, and again, and again, and there were a thousand words in each of those silent, neat kisses, strung out through the dark like pearls.

Dean laughed a little, slightly delirious. “Yeah, just…” But the rest of the sentence was swallowed up, and Dean found himself flat on his back, with his hands being pressed into the mattress above his head. The kisses were suddenly much less neat. Then abruptly, Cas stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, hearing his own heart pound in his ears. He kept still, despite the urge to shift under Cas’ weight.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just…wanted to make sure.”

“Seriously? Dude, we _talked_ about this. You don’t have to keep doing that any more.”

Above him, Cas moved slightly. Probably a nod. “I know. I guess I just like hearing you say yes.”

“You want me to say ‘yes’, huh?” He grinned, knowing Cas could see it. “That an angel thing, or have you got a kink?”

He said it lightly, but he felt Cas’ fingers tighten momentarily around his own.

“Can’t it be both?”

“Sure it can,” Dean said, deploying his most soothing voice, because this seemed important, somehow. Then he pressed his body upwards, asking in his own way, persistent. “Hey. Come on, you’ve gotta give me a reason to say it, though.”

So Cas did.

 

 


	2. Clouded Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have the eighth iteration of this scene! :D

Cas was beginning to think something was wrong. Well, more wrong than usual. He was mindful of Dean's concern about his health. Indeed, it was impossible to miss. It added a lowlevel background radiation to their every interaction. Every touch was imbued with its color; every kiss began and ended with its echo. Dean hesitated at his buttons in the morning, at his mouth in the evening, at the door to the Bunker when he and Sam left for a supply run.

For the first few days after his return, Cas had slept. He had tried not to, but he couldn't help it. He'd often wake to find Dean lying silently next to him, listening to music on his headphones, or leafing through a book.

By his fifth day back on earth, Cas began to feel himself knit back together again, the tendrils of grace reaching slowly out to their sundered counterparts, one by one. He slept less and less. He took to taking short flights in the predawn, while Dean slept. Once, he flew to Sinai, which had always been one of his favored places, to feel where he had touched the earth in his very first vessel; once he stayed closer to home, watching a lone white ship slide along the horizon off the coast of Nova Scotia. Short flights. Because he could. Because he remembered what it felt like when he couldn't.

He always returned when Dean called. Dean never seemed to realize that he'd done so, however, and so Cas never mentioned it.

He didn't venture up to Heaven. Not yet.

Hannah seemed to restrict her dealings primarily to Sam, probably at Dean's insistence that Cas needed time to recover. Cas suspected that the return of cell phone and wifi signal to the Midwest had been at Sam's request. It would not have occurred to Hannah, or to any angel who had never experienced the great, blank wound of severed connection, that it might be important; that its loss might drive someone to despair.

The voices of his siblings, when he focused on them, did not seem to mention him at all. Of course, that meant nothing. They could be doing just that—likely _were_ doing just that—on private frequencies. Angels had a terrible tendency to gossip.

Cas finally bristled at the spun glass treatment after eight days.

“Dean, I'm _fine_ ,” he said, as Dean ushered him to a chair in the library. He knew that this was not strictly true. For one thing, Dean had just pulled him from the floor. For another, Cas wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up on the floor in the first place. “I'm not hurt. I'm okay.” Instinctively he checked all corners, but it was only the library, and they were alone. Sam would not be back from town until after lunch.

“Yeah, sure, I know,” Dean said, in a kind of neutral voice that Cas was beginning to dislike. “You're doing a lot better. Hey, this is the first time this has happened to you in almost two days. And you were only out for a few minutes this time. Major improvement, right?” He had produced a pair of socks from somewhere (he seemed to be carrying them around frequently these days, for reasons which Cas had never bothered to question). Cas obligingly lifted his foot when Dean tapped the arch with his fingertip. It took a moment, as Cas watched this, for Dean's words to sink in.

“What?” Cas gripped the chair's arm so hard that the old wood creaked in protest. “What are you talking about?”

Dean looked up from where he knelt, with one sock pulled halfway up Cas' foot. His fingers curled around Cas' bare ankle.

For a moment, neither said anything.

“Cas,” Dean said, and the neutral tone had been replaced by a careful one, the name drawn out and softened so that it might land on him like water and not stone. Dean seemed to work around a set of words which he could not actually say. “For the last five days, you've...you've been...” But Dean stopped, cleared his throat and looked down. He finished pulling the second sock up, but didn't raise his eyes when he was done. 

 “What do you remember about the last five days? Start with Monday.”

“Um,” Cas said, attempting to gather his thoughts while they slipped and skittered, spider-like, away from him. “Monday and Tuesday I spent organizing your reliquary into something resembling a coherent collection.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. Why?”

“ _Why?_ Dean, it was in the most appalling disarray I've ever seen. It took me the two full days to arrange it.” 

“That's because...because you passed out in the middle of the shelves and sent half the crap to the floor. You shattered an _unbreakable_ ossuary box. There were skull fragments everywhere.” Dean still couldn't quite look at him. His hand rested unsteadily on Cas' knee.

“I did _what_?”

“Don't worry, it wasn't cursed or anything,” Dean said quickly, because that was the issue here, obviously.

Once, when he was graceless, Cas had decided to try bathing in the Rex River, in an attempt to save money. He remembered being unsettled at the feeling of the silt under his feet, how it seemed to suck him down slightly where he stood, how the river grass wrapped around his shins, the brown water slowly lapping at his knees. He had held it together pretty well, however, until he decided to duck under the water and felt it close over his head. It was cold, and he couldn't see the bottom, even though it was only a few feet deep. Suddenly, he was ripping apart, with black sludge pouring from eyes and nose and mouth, from every pore as Leviathan dislodged themselves all at once from his true form. Their leech mouths were stained blue-white with his grace, the phosphorescent holy filth marking where they'd fed. He'd dragged himself up on to the river bank and lain there until feeling returned to his body.

He got a similar sensation now, but instead of the grimy squelch of Leviathan, it was something with the sound and weight of Heaven, ringing through him faintly like a distant bell. He turned towards it, curious, trying to see what it was, but felt an odd sliding sensation in his mind, as though he'd stepped on a hidden patch of ice. Whatever he was looking for slipped from view. 

Cas felt hands on either side of his face and turned his attention back to Dean. Dean was speaking again, repeating his name at increasing frantic volumes. He looked pale.

"Buddy, you're kind of freaking me out here."

"Sorry," Cas said, because he could not think of anything else to say. A thought struck him them, sharp and sudden, like a blade between the ribs. "Dean, when I...I didn't..."

"Woah, hey, hey, calm down," Dean said. He brushed the hair back from Cas' forehead and ran his hand along Cas' though, squeezing his knee slightly, though Cas couldn't tell if this was for his benefit, or Dean's. The feeling of it was warm and soothing. It radiated comfort, though Cas could also feel the worry that punctuated it, like static crackling underneath. 

“I don’t want to put you in danger. You or Sam,” Cas said at last.

Dean stilled, then recoiled slightly as the meaning behind Cas’ words sunk in. His fingers clutched more convulsively at the fabric at Cas’ knee and the static hissed louder.

“No, it isn’t like that, okay?” Dean said, and the careful tone of voice had dissolved entirely. “You really don’t remember?”

“No.”

Dean stood at last, wincing from holding one position too long. “I didn’t see what happened the first time, down in the reliquary,” Dean admitted. “I called you because I wanted to show you something on Netflix. I don’t know how long you’d been lying there.” His jaw twitched, but he looked otherwise calm. “Sam and I carried you to bed. You were out a while.”

Cas could think of nothing to say.

“The second time was two days ago, Wednesday night. You remember what we were doing Wednesday night?”

“We were...reading up on incubus lore in bed, for that possible case in Lubbock. Which you kept trying to turn into foreplay, for some reason.”

“Hey, man. Sex demon. Sex. Demon.”

“Emphasis on _demon_.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, well, anyway. You were reading something out to me, some really long passage. Then you started telling me about some Mesopotamian water deity you once dealt with, and then all of a sudden you just stopped.” He ran his hands through his own hair, disheveling it. “You just kind of went...I dunno, blank. Like you almost did just then. Then you slumped over and were out cold for two hours.”

“I...don’t remember any of this.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that,” Dean said. “This is the third time we’ve had this conversation.”

 _Angels_ , Cas thought, _are such frustrating creatures from the human perspective_.

Dean seemed to catch the irritation in his own voice, and tempered it. “It’s just...I want you to be okay, man. Sam does, too.”

Cas nodded, feeling strangely light headed. Like a hit of psilocybin, without the pleasantries.

“You didn’t take the Lubbock case.”

“What? No, of course not. I passed it to someone else.”

“Because of me.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean said with a shrug. “Screw the case. You need us here.”

“Dean, you can’t.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want my weakness to stop you from doing your job.”

“ _Weakness_? Cas, that’s not...that’s not it at all. You’re healing.”

“People could die because you’re not out there hunting. And you can only stay in here so long without...becoming impatient. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve washed every car in the garage three times already.”

Dean sunk back down again, and rested his forehead against Cas’ knees. Staring at the back of his neck made Cas feel strangely protective, and he rested his hand there. “Look,” Dean said, after such a long pause that Cas had begun to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. “If a big one comes up, Sam and I will deal with it. But it’ll have to be DEFCON One level. The main thing is for you to get better. I don’t want you even thinking about cases or rebuilding or anything right now. Okay? Please.”

“But Dean, I can help.”

“I know you can but…not until you’re completely well again.”

Cas bit down the protestation that the term _completely well_ hadn’t applied to him in years, and might never do so again. It was true, but it certainly wouldn’t help his case with Dean. He tried another tactic. “I know I can’t go into the field while I’m...like this. I understand that. I’d put you, and myself, in danger. That isn’t what I’m asking. But there has to be _something_ I can do. Just let me be useful.”

Dean stood again, looking stricken. “You don’t have to be _useful_.”

“Yes, I do.”

“We’ve been over this, this…’you aren’t a hammer’ debate so many damn times, Cas. Seriously.”

“Not a hammer, no. But I _am_ an angel, Dean.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“Do you?" Cas asked, looking down at the cheery red and white patterns on his feet.

"I've seen the wings, the halo, the whole...Glory of the Lord thing in full effect. I get it."

Cas laughed again, mostly to himself. "The Glory of the Lord. Yes, right. But it isn't just that. Dean, I...I was made to be of use. To be useful. It’s the entire basis of my life. You know this.”

“Yeah, and that is all kinds of fucked up, I thought we established that. For Christ’s sake, your core programming consists of the word _obey_. I mean, I’m not a lawyer, but I think that counts as slavery, Cas.” Cas saw him shudder.

Cas laughed a little. He couldn’t help himself. “Okay, yes, that is... _fucked up_. No argument there. That’s probably why I’ve never been any good at following the directive. But obedience was just a means for Heaven to get us to fulfill our role. Which was to serve.”

“This is not getting any less creepy, gotta be honest with you.”

“Dean, I _have_ to help people. To help you. To help Heaven. It’s integral to who I am as a...as a person. It’s fundamentally a part of who I am. If I...If I feel there is something I can do to help but I don’t do it, it’s...it feels…” He cast about for some adequate descriptor and quickly hit the end of the English language. He felt the tattered pieces of his grace fray slightly and sought to hold them together. “If I can help, then I must,” he said eventually.

Dean drew back at that. “So, what, you think Heaven had the _right_ idea?” He began pacing, a tiger in a cage.

“What? _No_ , of course not. Heaven was wrong about many things, not least of which was this. But there is a difference between servitude and service, Dean. I escaped the former, and I’ll never regret it. But I welcome the latter because...to do otherwise would be to deny everything I am.” He looked up at Dean, where he prowled the edges of the conversation with uneasy tread. He had turned away from Cas now. “I could no more stop wanting to be of use than I could stop the way I feel about you.”

Dean stopped. His back was a monument of silence.

“Alright,” he said, finally, as the monument crumbled. “The next case that comes up within one day’s drive, whatever it is, we’ll take it. You can man the books.”

“Thank you,” Cas said, slumping down in the chair. He felt exhausted, somehow, a kind of insidious fatigue, like he’d fought a battle he hadn’t even known he was fighting.

“ _But_ ,” Dean said, turning to him, “You have to do something for me.”

“Of course. Anything.”

Dean nodded. Cas saw a kind of fierce satisfaction flare in his eyes, and realized that he’d miscalculated. He so often did when it came to Dean. “Focus on getting better. Relax. Rest. Heal up, and don’t try taking on the world before you’re ready, okay?”

“Dean…”

“No, listen, okay? That’s what I need you to do. You want to help me, then do this for me. Please. We’re family. I have to know you’re okay. Consider it a fundamental part of _my_ nature. Can you do that for me?”

Cas sighed, but his irritation at being cornered by his own logic gave way to something softer, and he nodded. He'd been bested. He didn't mind. “Alright. I can do that for you.”

****

Four days later, Cas sat at the end of Sam's bed watching a confusing, yet engrossing, program about a women’s penitentiary, while Sam snored quietly beside him. He heard Dean enter and turned to pat the empty space next to him, but the question he’d been meaning to ask since the beginning of the episode died on his tongue at the sight of Dean’s expression.

“Dean, what is it?”

“It’s Jody,” Dean said. “Claire’s sick. There’s only one doctor in the area and he has no idea what it is. They’re holed up in some cabin in Montana, and she wants us to come out there. The three of us.”

They made it to Montana by nightfall. The checkpoint guards were unconscious for two days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said earlier that I wasn't watching Season 11, but all the triumphal noise about Episode 4 persuaded me to watch it and **wow** it was so good I wanted to simultaneously laugh and cry. This chapter/scene/coda went in a very different direction originally, but, inspired by the episode, I had to explore the ways in which Dean and Cas deal with their own and each other's well-being, and where that might create miscommunications. Plus, you know. Netflix. 
> 
> Angels interest me because they're basically a warrior-slave race of creatures. Unmatched cosmic power but held on a taut chain. What do you do when the chain is gone? How does that alter you? It was important to me that Cas be allowed to keep his angelic nature (and the fundamental nature of an angel is _to be of use_ ) while also letting him embrace the idea of Free Will, and learning to _want_ things (which is thoroughly unangelic). It was also important that he and Dean learn to meet halfway sometimes.
> 
> BurningTea has suggested I treat these as a series of interlocking codas more than tightly-plotted chapters. That sounds fun and terrifying, so I'm going to try it!


	3. Compline, Great and Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one really got away from me. Consider this part one of a 2 part coda. The next one will wrap up the situation.

Dean watched the scene in the rearview mirror more than he did the road ahead. He only realized this because Sam kept pointedly clearing his throat and twitching his hand out towards the wheel every fifteen minutes or so.

“Eyes on the road, Dean,” Sam said through clenched teeth, his voice low. It was always a little unnerving how much he sounded like John when he spoke that way. “We can’t save her if we all get killed before we get home.”

“I’ve logged, like, a quarter of a million hours of seat time, Sam. I know how to drive,” Dean snapped, but wrenched his eyes forward. The highway was empty and devoid of light, overhead or oncoming. The Impala poured her long black roar into the all-encompassing dark--empty fields, a moonless sky. As usual, Dean favored the county roads to the interstates. The odds of hitting a checkpoint were much lower, and so he did not have to watch his speed.

Tension burned between his shoulder blades, as though someone had struck a match deep in his back, and fiber by fiber, every muscle was slowly catching fire. He rolled his neck in an attempt to ease the ache, and in doing so, brought his eyes back to the rearview mirror.

None of the women currently sitting in the back seat looked well. They were all too thin, for a start, with the planes and hollows of their faces in stark chiaroscuro from weeks of hunger. Alex slumped in the seat behind Sam, not looking at anything in particular. Jody’s hair had grown longer and now curled around her ears, in desperate need of a wash. Claire lolled between them, shivering in the cage of Jody’s arms, with her legs sprawled across Alex’s lap. Her blonde hair had been cropped, somewhat inexpertly, because Jody had read it in a book once and they had run out of ideas. She hadn’t made a sound for the duration of the ride. Dean could not decide if it was better or worse than the noises she’d been making at the cabin. He turned his eyes back to the road.

“We’ll be there soon,” he said, into the feverish silence that had reigned, unbroken, since they started the journey. They drove on.

****

Cas was waiting for them by the door of the Bunker when they finally arrived, the white of his shirt flaring starkly in the headlights He stood, unmoving, with eyes pinned to the approaching car.

“Have you been standing out here the entire time?” Dean asked, as he opened the door.

“No,” Cas said, staring into the back window. Dean was half afraid the glass would splinter under the intensity of it. “As soon as I got back, I prepared three rooms for them. That took about an hour.”

“And then you, what, just came out here to wait?”

“Yeah.”

“For _ten hours_?”

“Yes.”

“In the cold?”

“ _Yes_.”

“With no coat on?”

“What part of _yes_ was unclear to you?” Cas was a glacier on the verge of calving and plunging into the sea. Dean heard the cracking of Cas’ nerves under his own skin, even though Cas would not look at him.

“Woah, jeez,” Dean said sharply. “Bite a guy’s head off for showing concern, why don’t you.”

Cas finally met his eyes, ice-blue and vast. Then he thawed. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, and the tension in his shoulders fled so quickly that Dean was afraid he might fall over.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, rubbing his face and feeling, as usual, instantly wretched. Sometimes there only seemed to be scar tissue where his heart should be, thick and leathery, and it throbbed rather than beat. “I’m just tired from the drive, and you’re worried. I get it. Help me get them inside.”

Cas reacted as though Dean had hurled holy oil at him and was now holding a lit match. He drew back a step. “I…I think it might be best if I leave that to you and Sam. I’ll check their rooms, just to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.”

“Cas, she’s asleep,” Dean said softly, stepping in close. “It’s alright, she’s been quiet the whole ride.”

“I’ll check their rooms,” Cas repeated. The rigidity had crept back into the lines of his body as he turned away to open the door. “And, uh, I’ll...I have some things I need to do. So, I’ll leave that to you and Sam, if you don’t mind.” He disappeared from view.

By the time they got everyone inside, Cas was nowhere to be found, but three of the rooms now had their doors ajar, ready to accept their new tenants. Dean quietly shepherded Alex to one of them, setting her bag down on the chair in the corner. There were clean sheets and blankets on the bed, as well as a pile of slightly threadbare but soft towels. There were bottles of water and a box of Twinkies placed very precisely on the little wooden desk. Dean noticed all this with a strange tightening sensation in his throat. He took a deep breath , and startled a little at the smell. He was expecting musty staleness, and instead got a hit of cool clean air, with a faint green note curing in his nose. It was as though the windows and doors had been thrown open on an early spring day.

“Huh,” he said, looking around at the obviously windowless walls. “That’s...unexpected.”

Alex cast a dull look at him, but said nothing. She sat on the bed as though she had no more will to stand, which unnerved Dean. From what he had been told, Alex had a sharp tongue and sharper eye for trouble, and both were a source of pride and worry for Jody.

“So, uh,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “You’ll probably want a shower. Jody said you were having to carry water from the lake by the end, which sucks. But the water pressure here’s great. And it’s got an industrial boiler, so you can stay in as long as you want; we won’t run out of hot water. There’s plenty of soap, shampoo, you name it, so uh...” He was about to say ‘have fun’ when realized: _Oh shit, hey, maybe don’t spend ten minutes rambling to a teenage girl about having fun in the shower room, Dean, you creep._

“So, you know...knock yourself out,” he finished lamely, backing out of the room. “Uh. I should probably go. You just...just let one of us know if you need help with anything. Anything not shower-related, I mean.”

Alex’s eyes had lost some of their colorlessness, and now she was looking at him with a slight furrow in her brow. Dean pulled the door shut before she could say anything.

Where the hell was Cas?

Dean turned around to see Sam disappearing into another room, carrying Claire bridal style. He hesitated for a moment, then followed. Sam stood awkwardly, trying to figure out how to get Claire under the covers while still holding her. Dean moved quickly to soothe his uneasiness, the buzz of unspent action and failed conversation simmering under his skin.

“Thanks,” Sam said softly, sliding Claire onto the bed and pulling the covers up to her shoulders. They stood watching her for a moment. Her face was pale and waxen, and, were it not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, Dean would have struggled to say whether or not she was alive. “Dean, she’s burning up.” Sam’s mouth was a grim line. “And she weighs next to nothing. If Cas can’t fix her, then…”

“Don’t say it,” a voice behind them said, sharp as the lash of a whip. “Don’t you dare.”

“Alex,” Dean said, ashamed at how startled he was.

“You’re going to save her,” Alex said. Her lips were bloodless, but her eyes were impossibly bright, burning like embers in the hollows of her face. Dean was suddenly reminded that she had once been not human. Something like that tended to linger, even after you crossed back over. The smoke never quite cleared away completely, he knew, even when the fire was long dead.

“We’re going to do our best, Alex,” Sam said, using the voice he employed on skittish vics over tea and tissues. “We’ll do everything we can.”

“Try? Like hell,” Alex spat. “You’re going to save her. You understand? You saved _me_ , remember? There was no saving me, and you saved me anyway.” As she spoke, the brightness in her eyes resolved itself into tears. They ran unchecked down her face, but her gaze was bold and searing.

“Alex,” Sam tried again.

“No! You said that other guy is an angel? I don’t know what he did to her back there, but...”

“He was trying to _help_ , Alex,” Dean said, uneasily. “He really is an angel, and…”

“So make him fix her! I swear, if you don’t save her, I’ll... I’ll...”

“Alex,” Jody said softly, from behind her, causing everyone to flinch slightly. “Why don’t you go hit the showers, honey. They’re actually pretty nice. Good water pressure.” Her hand found Alex’s bicep and squeezed, a supportive gesture rather than a warning one, before she stepped into the room. Behind her, Alex nodded, tear-blind, before turning on her heel and fleeing.

“Sorry about that,” Jody said. She looked younger, less tired, with the residual heat of the shower lending her cheeks a hint of color that months of hardship had stolen. “She and Claire, they...bonded. Very strongly and very quickly. I forgot how intense friendships between girls are at that age. Or, I guess, maybe...well, never mind. The point is, Alex is extremely protective of her family. You know that. And Claire falls firmly in that category now.”

“It’s cool,” Dean said. “We get it.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Her fever’s dropping again,” Jody said, settling carefully on the bed and resting her hand against Claire’s sweaty forehead. Claire’s eyes moved rapidly back under their lids and her brows drew together tightly at the touch. “She’ll probably come around soon. What’s up with your friend?” There was no pause between the statement and the question, as though she were trying to slip it into the conversation like a letter under the door. Her voice betrayed no hint of what she might think.

“He’s…” Dean said, then found he was unable to figure out the end of the sentence. _He’s not_ just _a friend? He’s going through some things right now and I’m terrified because I don’t know exactly what those things are? He’s only just come back to me and I’m 75% sure he’ll stick around this time but also 25% sure he’ll leave forever with no prior warning? He…_

“He’s around here somewhere,” Sam said, when it became evident that Dean’s brain was stuck in one of its hopeless feedback loops. “He’s not so great with, um, making appropriate exits and entrances.”

Jody raised one eyebrow. _No shit, Winchester_ was written plainly on her face. “Yeah, I kinda got that from the way he, uh, Disapparated in front of me without a word of warning.”

“You’re lucky he agreed to ride in the car with us _at all_ ,” Dean protested. “He wanted to fly straight into your living room as soon as he got the news. ”

Jody’s eyes widened at that, and her hand drew away from Claire’s troubled brow. “When you say ‘fly’...”  
“It looks like teleporting,” Sam said. “Or, you know, Apparating, like you said. From our perspective, anyway. Instantaneous. He can cover the entire face of the globe in about two seconds. He once tried to explain how it worked to me, but, heh, no dice.” He shook his head at the memory, the ghost of an Angelic Physics Lesson Headache evident in his eyes. Dean was familiar with those.

“Right,” Jody said, drawing out the word as she moved from disbelief to resigned, confused belief, slotting yet another impossibility into her world. “Well, I’m glad I finally got to meet him, I just wish it was under better circumstances. And,” she said, looking back down at Claire as she stood. “Alex is right. Whatever he was doing didn’t seem to be helping. At all.”

“He was trying to _heal_ her,” Dean said, with a touch of desperation. “I don’t know what Claire’s told you about Cas, and I don’t understand what happened back there, but I promise you, he would never…He might fuck up, but he would never willingly do harm.” He took a deep breath. “She’s got a lot of reasons to hate him, but she _knows_ he’s a good guy.”

Jody drew back, frowning, as though Dean had suddenly begun speaking in tongues mid-sentence. “Hate him? She doesn’t hate him, Dean. I mean, she told me that they, um, they got off to a bad start,” Jody said.

“You could say that,” Dean muttered, under his breath.

“But she never went into detail about _how_ ,” she continued, unperturbed. “And I didn’t push. A kid like that, they need to be able to come to you on their own. You push even the slightest and they’ll circle the wagons.” She sighed, standing again. Her clothes hung off of her, and served to accentuate her thinner frame, rather than hide it. Dean was gripped by the sudden urge to get in the kitchen and cook until the cupboards were bare. “But, you know, she actually talked about you guys a lot, in a roundabout way. Angel included. And trust me when I say that she might feel a lot of things, confusing things, but hatred? Isn’t one of them. Not remotely.” She looked at Dean, earnest and exhausted and so strong that he wanted to look away, but couldn’t. “Dean, she called out for him.”

“What?”

Jody nodded, grim. “She called out for him, the first time the fever spiked. A week or, hell, however long ago it was now. Back before we had any phone signal. She called out for her mom, and her dad, and for Castiel.” She said the name uncertainly, as though she wasn’t entirely sure she should be saying it. “She called out a few times after that, too. Each time the fever was at its worst. That’s why I can’t understand what happened.”

“She _called out_ for him?” Sam asked, sitting down. The old chair creaked in protest. “Like...a prayer?”

“Uh, you mean, like a Hail Mary kind of thing? No.”

“No, no,” Dean said, tensing at a half-remembered thought, like something seen out of the corner of his eye, just out of his line of sight. His hand itched at the sensation, wanting a weapon, but he kept it still. “Angels don’t need _formal_ prayers. They basically just need...thoughts aimed at them. Requests, feelings. That sort of thing. They have...think of it like a police scanner. There’s a, you know, standard way to get in touch, but it still works even if you don’t follow the protocol. It’s just a lot less precise.” Dean refused to admit how much the realization that he’d been loudly broadcasting his feelings, unaware, for years, spooked that part of him that still needed plausible deniability, that saw personal desire as the first step toward downfall. The part of him, he admitted bitterly, that still saw Cas’ incomprehension of the nuances of human emotion as a blessing.

Jody looked thoughtful. “Well, in that case, yeah, maybe it could count as a prayer.”

Sam sat, looking into the middle distance, with an elbow resting on each knee. “What I don’t understand,” he said at last, into his steepled hands, “is why Cas didn’t go to her the minute he heard her. Formal prayer or not, that isn’t the sort of thing he’d ignore. I don’t think he’s _able_ to ignore it, even if he chooses not to act on it. Unless,” Sam looked at Dean sharply, “you don’t think he turned it off, do you?”

“Angel radio? Psh, no. Not on purpose. He did it once as penance, remember? It’s not...fun for an angel to cut themselves off from the Host, from what I can tell.”

Sam nodded. “That's true. But it makes even less sense if he’s got angel radio running. He wouldn’t ignore a prayer where Claire’s concerned. I mean, he once told me he spent an entire day tracking her down just because she was _vaguely_ thinking about him. If he heard her, he’d go. So why didn’t he hear her?”

Dean felt an obscure dread prickling under his skin, grey as midwinter in the impossible springtime air of the room. He tugged ineffectually at the hem of his shirt. “Give the guy a break, Sam, he’s still trying to find his sea legs.”

Dean knew that Sam wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t convinced, either.

On the bed, Claire stirred, making a small, irritated noise. Her throat sounded scored raw. Jody sank down and pressed the back of her hand to Claire's forehead again. “Oh, thank god,” she said. “It’s broken. She’ll be awake soon. She needs something to eat.”

Dean realized both Sam and Jody were looking at him expectantly. “Oh, uh, yeah,” he said, blinking as though he’d just woken up somewhere strange. “Listen, Sam, you think you can handle KP duty for a few?”

“ _Me_?”

“You’re a big boy, I think you can heat up a can of soup.”

“Uh, sure,” Sam said, valiantly trying to fight down his confusion and alarm at Dean’s sudden relegation of duties. Sam could cook, theoretically, but he tended to view food from a purely functional perspective: it was a necessity, it was fuel; any enjoyment you derived from it was an incidental bonus.

“I know my way around a kitchen, boys,” Jody said, frowning.

“No way,” Dean said. “You’re our guest. Sam will set you up with some soup, and I’ll rustle you up something more substantial in a little bit.”

“Wow, appetizers _and_ an entree,” Jody said as they left Claire’s room and pulled the door not-quite-closed.

“Ain’t a bad joint we’re running, all things considered,” Dean said, with a lightness he didn’t feel. “Just, just give me a few minutes and I’ll take over. Don’t burn anything down in the meantime.’

Sam scowled at him. “I _know_ how to make food, Dean. And before you start, _I like_ salads.”

“You don’t make friends with salad, Sam,” Dean said, grinning in spite of himself as Sam’s scowl deepened.

“Oh, man, I haven’t had a vegetable that wasn’t out of a can in _months_ ,” Jody said, raising her eyebrows at the scene unfolding in front of her. “Lead the way.”

Sam shot him a triumphant look over his shoulder.

“Alright, alright maybe in this instance, you _do_ make friends with salad,” Dean said, to their backs, “But my point still stands!”

The quiet, ordinary pleasure of the moment lingered until they’d disappeared from view, and then evaporated. He heard the distant clank and groan of the boiler working, the low murmur of Jody and Sam’s voices as they walked toward the kitchen. He could feel, in that indefinable but pin-sharp way of a hunter, the presence of everyone currently in the Bunker, and he knew that Cas was not among them. He checked the library and the garage, just to be sure, but both were empty. He made his way back to the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, hospital corners, just as he’d left it. Cas would just leave it half-made if left to his own devices, in that generally rumpled way of his. But the bedside lamp had been left on for Dean’s benefit.

“Cas?” Dean called out. “You there?” Just because Cas wasn’t visible didn’t mean he wasn’t here. And when had _that_ stopped being creepy? Well, never mind. There were other things to think about at the moment.

Dean looked around the room more carefully when he got no answer. The closet was open slightly, and he looked inside. Cas’ worldly possessions amounted to precisely five things: the Continental, a white dress shirt, a black suit, a tan coat, a pair of shoes. Dean had bought the clothes a few days after Castiel’s return from the Cage, after they’d all decided the previous iteration of the outfit was beyond salvage. (At the last moment, Dean had removed the battered overcoat from the burn pile and hid it in a box in the reliquary. But no one had to know that.) Dean had taken great pains to ensure that everything was appropriately tailored this time—and if that meant driving past two checkpoints to get to Topeka, and then handing over a pile of twenties to a tailor he’d found in the phone book, well, no one had to know that, either.

He’d taken even greater pains to make sure that Cas had tried on, and then taken off, everything. As slowly as possible. Dean had needed to properly judge the quality of the tailoring he’d spent so much money on, after all. He’d made Cas do it multiple times, actually, over the course of several days, frequently with help, until Dean was satisfied with his purchase.

Most of the outfit stayed discreetly in the corner of their closet. Cas favored shirtsleeves; Dean favored them rolled up. It worked out for everyone. But still, that coat had cost a truly eye-watering sum, and while Dean didn’t begrudge a penny of it, he hated to think that he’d wasted the money on something Cas didn’t actually like.

He’d finally asked about it one morning, not so long ago. “So,” Dean had said, too-casually, as Cas watched him fix the last button in place, then think the better of it and undo it. “New coat not up to standard?”

Cas had frowned at him as he looked up. Dean only saw this from the corner of his eye, as he spent more time smoothing out the crease in the shirt’s collar.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just, you know, I haven’t seen you wear it.”

“I’ve worn it five times in the last week, Dean.”

“I mean, I haven’t seen you wear it without me prompting you, Cas.”

Dean could easily read the hidden tides that moved Castiel’s expressions, particularly from up close: the gentle currents that formed a smile, the riptide of his wrath, the undertow that pulled him down into black, cold waters, so deep Dean sometimes feared he’d never surface again, the waves that broke over them both and left them gasping, stunned.

What he saw instead was an intense stillness, as though the oceans of the world had suddenly stopped in their paths. Dean had leaned back involuntarily, but Cas just blinked and looked at Dean for a moment, saying nothing.

“Warriors need armor, Dean,” Cas had said at last, as though forming the hypothesis even as he spoke.

“Cas, it’s gabardine, not chainmaille. It’s hardly gonna stop a bullet.”

Cas’ eyeroll was restricted for once, to just his eyes, much to Dean’s astonishment.

“Armor in the _metaphorical_ sense, Dean.” They stepped away from each other, as Cas regarded some spot over Dean’s shoulder. Dean wondered if Cas occasionally forgot about the set of eyes on his human body, particularly if he was lost in thought. “I...when I put it on, I feel myself becoming...when I put it on, I know that I have work to do, and I know that I am an angel.”

“That’s reading a lot into a piece of outerwear,” Dean said. His heart thudded in lopsided staccato in his chest.

"Dean, you carried my first coat with you for months, even when it would have been more convenient for you to dispose of it. Can you honestly tell me that it served no symbolic purpose for you? Forgive me; I know I’m not the most sentimental of creatures, but I find that hard to believe.”

The air in the room had suddenly grown thin, as though they were standing at a great height, and Dean heard an odd rushing in his ears. But whether it was his own blood, or a howl of wind or the roar of some great beast, he couldn’t say.

Cas had looked at him, infinitely gentle, and rested his head on Dean’s shoulder. The oxygen level returned to normal. He continued, much softer: “When I’m here, with you, my task is to be here, with you. I don’t need armor for that. I wouldn’t want it, anyway.” He looked up and held out one arm, then the other, so that Dean might roll the cuffs of his sleeves to a satisfactory height. “I only need the coat when I need to...remember what I need to be out in the world, out on a mission.”

“So, what, you’re Superman and it’s your cape and tights?”

Cas smiled. “I like that. Yes, I suppose so.” He leaned in for a kiss, then another. “That makes you Lois Lane.”

“Man, sometimes I miss pop-culture-unsavvy you.”

“No, you don’t,” Cas said, between kisses. “Strange, isn’t it? For a long time I couldn't differentiate between the vessel and its clothes. Now look at me.”

“Now look at you.”

Dean recalled this conversation in an instant as he looked at the set of empty hangers in the closet.

 _I have some things I need to do_.

“Cas,” Dean said again. “Castiel, I need you to get back here right now. Whatever you’re planning, man, don’t do it without talking to me first. Please.”

To his immense surprise and relief, Dean heard the sound of wings behind him. “There you are,” he said, letting out a strained breath.

“Hi,” Cas said, quietly.

“Hello,” Dean said, turning at last. “You...don’t _scare_ me like that.”

“Sorry,” Cas said, and he looked it. “I had to call in some back up. There were...complications. It took longer than expected.”

“Back up? What do you mean back up?”

Cas glanced behind him. There was another burst of air and suddenly Dean saw a familiar face appear at Castiel’s shoulder: blue-eyed, dark-haired, eternally awkward. And decidedly female.

“ _Hannah_?”

“Hello, Dean,” she said, solemnly. “Castiel says a member of your family is ill. Please, let me help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday! Or it was, a few hours ago. Mostly, all I got was a cold. And I realized that the next part of this was going to be way beyond the scope of this chapter, which is primarily me making explicit in text the symbolic nature of Cas' outfit that they leave in subtext on the show. Fun! Anyway, enjoy.


	4. An Imperfect Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triage, and family meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. This is now part 2 of a 3 part coda. Or rather, a mini-arc, if you'd prefer.

“Hannah, what…” Dean began to ask, but then switched his focus to Castiel, his upturned palms broadcasting a silent question.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Cas admitted. “My efforts were...not helpful. And I didn’t want to risk moving Claire. Safer to bring Hannah to her, than the other way around.”

Hannah’s borrowed eyes darted around the room, flashes of foreign kingfisher blue among the familiar grey and brick walls. She seemed more comfortable in this vessel than she had before; the consequence of having moved and fought and died within the confines of a human body. Castiel could relate. He no longer felt pushed to the very edges of his skin every moment of the day. Now, it was only certain moments of the day, usually involving Dean.

“I can see why you’d want to keep her here if she’s weak,” Hannah said, turning her head only slightly, observing with her own eyes. “This is very impressive, Castiel. I’ve never seen a place so well-defended.”

“Right. Well, uh, hello, I guess,” Dean said at last, sounding equal parts bewildered and tired.

She turned to Dean, trying on a smile. They were reflexive when she looked at Cas, at other angels; she didn’t even realize she was doing it, most of the time. The Winchesters, however, though comrades-in-arms, were still human, and therefore baffling—and a particularly baffling subset of the species, at that. And of the two of them, Dean was the most difficult to gauge, the least angelic in his thinking, the one that caused the most confusion. (He could relate there, too, he supposed.)

“It’s...good to see you again, Dean.” She looked back at Cas, and her expression softened. “I don’t know why you were worried, the warding gave me no trouble.”

Dean’s expression altered slightly, as he sought to parse the meaning behind Hannah’s words. “The warding?” he asked, slowly.

“I asked Hannah here to see if she might have more luck with Claire than I’ve had,” Cas offered quickly, because he didn’t have time to judge the directions Dean’s thoughts were going. Far better than to just set them back on the original course.

“Right,” Dean said. He shook his head, a sketchy half-gesture, as though he just remembered where he was. “Right, yeah, ‘cause you’re…” He waved his hand ambiguously at her.

“Healing has always been one of my primary functions,” she supplied helpfully.

“Medical corps, yeah.”

She nodded, smiling genuinely. “I like that. Yes, I suppose so. All of Raphael’s troops were...medical corps.”

“Raphael? That dick was some kind of, of _medic_?”

Hannah’s brow furrowed. “He was—is the patron of healers and doctors.” She looked back at Castiel, then. “You know, I still can’t understand why he never healed your eye. He never liked to leave visible damage when he was done.”

“I suspect he kept it as a trophy.”

Hannah merely nodded, thoughtful, but Dean made some sort of strangled noise.

“ _What_?”

Cas frowned, dismissing the conversation with a wave. Those were days he tried to avoid thinking of if at all possible, if only to stop himself wondering about any feelings of betrayal that might still lurk in Dean and Sam. (There weren’t any, of course there weren’t. But still.) “It’s not important. What _is_ important is healing Claire.”

“Of course,” Hannah said, and her pale face turned serious. “The girl. May I see her now?”

“Dean?” Cas asked, tentative, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Could you?”

“Why me? She’s your k—your... _vessel._ ” Dean cleared his throat and crossed his arms with an uncomfortable expression.

Hannah looked to him sharply. “Your _vessel_? The child is your vessel?”

“She was once, very briefly,” he said. He shrugged off his coat, if only to try and alleviate the strange, heavy feeling that was weighing on him. He looked at Hannah. “Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_ , Castiel. Vessels always matter. Why didn’t you mention it?”

Cas was apparently wrong: he could feel pushed the edges of his skin for other people, too.

“I haven’t thought of her that way in some time. And I know they _matter_ , Hannah _._ It just..it didn’t seem relevant,” he said, pulling himself back in. There was lightning in his mouth. He swallowed it down.

“It is,” Hannah said, suddenly all steel beneath the deceptively soft exterior. “Take me to her.”

Claire was awake, truly awake, at last. Jody sat slumped in the corner chair, with a bowl of soup balanced precariously on her knees. She wasn’t paying much attention to eating it. Instead, she watched as Alex, perched on the edge of the bed, painstakingly fed spoonfuls to Claire.

“Uh,” Castiel said, clearing his throat and standing awkwardly in the doorway. His mind seemed to stall. Claire’s eyes snapped to him, and he braced himself for another round of incoherent clawing and screaming. But nothing happened.

“Not exactly _Hail, thou who art highly favored_ ,” Dean said from behind his shoulder.

“Gabriel wrote that script,” Cas observed with a cross look over his shoulder. “You want bombast, ask one of his.”

“Right,” Jody said, drawing out the word, her spoon forgotten halfway to her mouth. “Should we...try that again? Without the bickering, maybe?”

“Yes, of course, sorry,” Cas said, feeling immediately chastened.

“Sorry,” Dean echoed, clearly feeling the same.

Claire watched him through the whole exchange, wide-eyed and silent. Alex had put the bowl of soup to one side, and grabbed Claire’s hand. It struck him how breakable she was, with her thin limbs and shivering body; she seemed, at that moment, like the most fragile thing he’d ever seen. (Not that he would ever dare say that to her. He could imagine how well that would go over.) He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to gather her up in his arms and whisper words of comfort into her hair. He’d done that once, on the night when Dean had slain every person in her so-called guardian's house, and Cas didn’t have to ask himself who she was really thinking of as she cried into the front of his shirt. But then he remembered the stark terror on her face the last time he tried to get near her. He stayed where he was.

“Hello, Claire,” he tried tentatively, attempting a smile and feeling monstrous. “Are you...are you feeling better?”

Claire swallowed and winced, as though her throat hurt. It probably did. Likely, she’d shouted it raw, and the fever certainly couldn’t help. “I’ve...been better,” she managed to rasp out finally. “You look…” She closed her eyes and swallowed again. “Normal,” she said at last.

“Thank you,” Cas said, since there seemed to be nothing else to say.

“No, I mean, when I saw you before...” But here Claire started to cough, her whole body rocking with it, causing tears to pearl at the corners of her eyes.

“Have some water,” Alex murmured, pressing a bottle into her hands. Castiel regretted not putting it into the fridge first, but Claire didn’t seem to care. She drank it down gratefully, sagging into Alex a little for support.

“I, um,” Castiel tried again, desperately wanting both to go in the room and turn on his heel and march straight back into Hell to avoid doing it. “I’ve brought someone who might be able to help you. If you’ll allow it.” He felt Hannah slip into the space behind him, and he finally stepped over the threshold, letting her pass. “Claire, this is Hannah. She’s—she was in Heaven’s medical corps. She’s a very skilled healer. Hannah, this is Claire. She’s my…” But his mind seemed reluctant to finish the thought. “I’m responsible for her welfare,” he said, eventually.

“Gee,” Jody said tartly, all thoughts of food clearly forgotten. “And here I thought that was my job.”

Cas winced. “No, that’s not what I...I’m grateful, truly. You’ve done a far better job than I ever…”

“Guys,” Claire cut in, in her halting, broken voice. “Just. Come on.” She closed her eyes, clearly exhausted.

“Seriously,” Alex agreed, standing to fetch another bottle of water. She opened it and drank half of it, before handing it to Claire.

“Right,” Cas said, pulling of his—or rather, Dean’s—tie. “Hannah?”

Hannah crouched down next to the bed, where Alex still sat with Claire pulled tight against her. Hannah stretched out her hand towards Claire’s face and Alex pulled them both away slightly.

“What are you doing?” Alex demanded.

“Healing her,” Hannah said, puzzled, with her hand still outstretched.

“Don’t touch her.”

“Alex,” Claire said softly, with her eyes still closed. “It’s fine. It’s how they work.” She struggled slightly to right herself, but sat up more fully and looked Hannah in the eye, unafraid, and Castiel felt a strange surge of pride as he watched. “Go ahead.”

As Hannah’s fingers made contact with Claire’s forehead, something unexpected happened to Castiel. He felt a prickling beneath his skin, electric thorns snagging against his grace, like the beginning of a summoning, but even more unpleasant. Almost painful. An indistinct memory fizzed in the back of his mind. He flinched, falling back a half-step straight into Dean. He felt one of Dean’s hands steady his shoulder, and the other, his hip.

“Easy,” Dean said quietly. “You okay?”

“I…don’t know,” Cas admitted, letting himself lean against Dean.

“What was that?” Claire asked, rubbing her face. “I don’t feel any better.”

“No,” Hannah said, standing. “It’s just as I suspected.”

“What?” came the three-voiced volley, as Cas, Jody and Alex lobbed the question at her.

Hannah blinked. “The child was your vessel, Castiel. I can’t heal her.”

“Wait,” Jody said. Her face had gone white and bloodless. “What do you mean you _can’t_ heal her?”

“I don’t understand,” Cas said, stepping out of Dean’s grip.

“I mean _I_ can’t heal her, Castiel,” Hannah said, coming in closer to him and lowering her voice. “She’s _your_ vessel. This illness is...it’s not that that it’s beyond my ability to heal, in theory, just as any angel might be able to heal Trials sickness. But the...signature of the illness is unique.”

“What do you mean?”

“You felt it, didn’t you?” Hannah asked, in a way that told Castiel that she already knew the answer. “When I sent my grace into her. You felt it. It hurt you.”

“I...how did you know?”

“As I say: the signature of the illness is unique. As far as we can tell, it only affects vessels. And it needs to be healed by an angel who has actually possessed the afflicted person.” Hannah looked like she might say something else, then, but opted to keep her mouth shut.

“Which would be you, Cas,” Claire said eventually, into the silence that stretched wide around Hannah’s words.

“You _possessed_ Claire?” Alex asked, rising to her feet. “ _That’s_ how you met? Like a...like a demon?”

“Not...not exactly like a demon, no,” Cas said, swaying slightly, feeling a slow agony threaten to engulf him. “And not for very long.”  
Alex looked ready to launch herself at him, full of ferocity and ardor, the way that all girls seemed to be underneath. (He’d felt it before, in Claire.) He resolved to take the hit if it came.

“You-”

“Annie,” Claire said softly.

The name seemed to have a profound effect on Alex, though Castiel could hardly guess why. She deflated under it and became small and tired, just a girl, after all. “But…”

“It was necessary,” Claire said firmly, but she looked at Castiel as she said it. For a moment her fever seemed to recede like the tide, and her eyes were clear and cool. “All of it was necessary. No hard feelings.”

“Alex, honey,” Jody said, standing up, “I think we should go help Sam in the kitchen. He’s been in there far too long for sandwiches.”

“I don’t…” But Alex stopped short, turning to look at Claire. “You never told me.”

Claire closed her eyes, clearly tired out again, and nodded. “I know. Sorry. I’ll be fine. Go get some food.”

Alex looked uncertain, but Jody put a hand on her arm, and she let out a breath. Her jaw tightened resolutely, and Cas saw shades of Dean in that expression. “Okay. See you later.”

After they left, Cas realized that Dean had been watching him silently throughout the entire exchange. Something was wrong. Hannah might be counted on to maintain her marble composure through any everyday crisis, but Dean—Dean was a pause-filler, an asker, a placater. As he looked back and forth between Dean and Claire, again he felt that strange sliding sensation, as he had several days ago, ice underfoot, treacherously black. The world began to list slightly, and suddenly, Dean’s hands were on him, anchoring him in the present moment, the present place. He kept ahold of himself, and stayed in the room. He saw Hannah turn towards him, and then towards Claire, with an anxious expression, and he followed her line of sight. The last fifteen minutes seemed to have sapped her of her strength, and he could see the blotchy red of the fever spread again across her skin in blooms of smarting pink. Her eyes seemed to go unfocused for a moment—Cas felt himself lurch a little—before snapping pin-sharp and unnaturally bright to him. Or not to him exactly, he realized but...no. _To him_. Not the body. Him.

This time, she didn’t scream, but the rise and fall of her chest betrayed that she was just reigning herself in from panic.

But that couldn’t be possible.

“Claire,” he said, cautiously. She drew in a sharp breath at the sound of her name. “Claire, look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and strained. She pushed herself up farther against the headboard. She gave a laugh, but it came out mangled. “Believe me. I’m looking.”

“Castiel, what...what does she mean?” Hannah asked, her own voice low and urgent, laced with an unnamable fear.

He felt Dean’s hand settle on his shoulder, and Claire blinked rapidly at the sight.

“He’s...very...bright,” she said. Her words were beginning to slur slightly. “I thought I was...hallucinating. Dreaming.”

Cas struggled to stay on his feet. He focused on the physical weight of Dean’s hand. It was sold and real. It was the only real thing, it seemed to him, in all of Creation. When he’d managed regain control of himself, he took a step towards Claire, but drew to a halt as she winced.  
_Wait._ He unfolded, six-winged, burning, every unsleeping eye aglow and so afraid, so afraid, and wasn’t _that_ ironic.

Two wings up, a veil; two around, a shroud; two, at last, at the foundation.

“Better?”

Claire’s eyes, which had grown heavy-lidded, widened again. “Yes,” she said. Beside him, Hannah gasped in understanding.

“What?” Dean asked. His confusion was almost comical in the overwrought atmosphere of the room. “He didn’t do anything.”

“Not that…” Claire slumped over further, and Hannah stepped over to her, sliding her gently down the bed. “You look…” She seemed to struggle with her thoughts. Well, he understood _that_ feeling acutely. His own thoughts seemed to have grown sluggish and oily, slow and yet impossible to hold on to.

“I thought you were coming to take me again,” Claire said, vaguely, closing her eyes. “It was...a nightmare I had for a while. But it’s not _then_ you, it’s _now_ you.”

“Claire, I…”

“I _like_ now you,” she murmured, almost incoherent. Her eyes fluttered open again. “I don’t mind looking at you. Not now.”

“You shouldn’t be able to see him _at all_ ,” Hannah said, sounding aggrieved. “You shouldn't be able to look on him and live.”

“Yeah, well,” Claire said. “Them's the breaks, I guess.”

Cas found himself being pulled round to face Dean. His face seemed to be undergoing some kind of complicated alchemy. He could almost see the frantic trail of emotions as one morphed into another.

“What are you saying?” he asked. “You mean she can see….you? _You_ you?”

Cas nodded. “Looks that way.” He regarded the featureless gray of the ceiling. “I don't understand.” When he looked back to the bed, Claire was asleep. “Hannah, when you came to Caroline, did she…”

“Caroline was on the verge of death,” Hannah said gravely. “No one could wake her. I thought I’d heard her calling to me for a while but...it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t like a prayer, not the way I’m used to getting them. In the end, it was her husband who called for me.” Hannah paused, running her hand through her hair. “He said she’d told him to pray to me for aid. But he's an atheist, so I think he resisted. Well, many find their faith is the shelter of last resort, I suppose.” She looked at Dean and Castiel then. “I didn’t willingly ignore her, you must understand. Lee, my other vessel, was ill, as well, and I had to concentrate on healing him.”

“Is he...” Dean ventured, then stopped.

“He is well, now. I’ve returned him home to his sister. I kept him too long, anyway. He said he was willing to stay with me, but I could feel it. I couldn’t in good conscience keep him any longer.”

“So what is it? This illness?” Cas asked, making his way to the bed and sitting down. He still had all six wings fanned against his true form, something he had not felt the need to do in some time, and the effort of it surprised him. Had he really grown _that_ weak? He hesitated, then picked up Claire’s hand and held it in both of his own. He sent out a small tendril of grace, and was met by the barbed sensation he had felt before. Only this time, it eased a fraction, and he could feel Claire’s fever lower slightly. Then, frustratingly, it rose again.

“As far as we can tell, it’s a lingering effect of the Darkness.”

Dean groaned. “That shit _again_? God damn it.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed.

“How does that work?” Dean asked.

“It seems that for any former vessel that came into contact with the Darkness, traces of it linger in them.”

“Like grace,” Dean said.

“Like grace. And that’s the problem. When the two meet, they war. You saw it on a large scale, Dean. Now imagine that happening inside a human body.”

“All vessels?” Cas asked, still holding Claire’s hand.

“All vessels who were touched by the Darkness, yes. And there is something else Castiel.”

"What?" he asked, not entirely able to keep the defeated growl out of his voice.

"Sam has told me that you have been...unwell these past few days. I believe that your illness and hers are related."

Cas thought of all the times he'd woken up on the floor or in bed, with no idea how he'd gotten there and no memory of having lost consciousness. He thought of the sick, breathless swoon that seemed to overtake the world as Claire's fever spiked and fell.

"I see," he said. 

Hannah pressed on. “I mentioned the Trials. The damage inflicted by this is of a similar magnitude. Look, Castiel. Look at me.” She pointed to her—Caroline’s heart—then put her hand on Castiel’s face. “Then look at her.”

The first was no trouble. He saw Hannah plainly: slight, young, practically a child herself, but brave and proud. Castiel sent his sight out, further seeking out the shape and sound of Caroline’s soul within its body. This was yet another thing he had not done, nor tried to do, in years, not for anyone but Dean (and even then, only rarely, in moments of pure sentimentality that he told himself he didn’t have). He saw the places where the two overlapped, fitted together, not always neatly, not always easily. But that was to be expected. In the spaces between, Cas could feel the quiet thrum and pulse of Hannah’s grace as it sought out the traces of sickness that permeated Caroline’s soul, pinpricks of pure black piercing the light: the night sky in reverse.

“I’ve been in her for several days already,” Hannah said quietly, letting her arm drop. “And I will have to remain for several more, at least. She was very ill. And I cannot say if a soul eaten away by Darkness can be found by Reapers and taken to Heaven. I couldn’t risk it. She will heal, but it will take time.” She looked back at Claire. “The child’s case is not as serious, not yet. But it will be, if you don’t act soon.”

“What do I have to do?”

Hannah hesitated, and Castiel lowered his wings and looked at her.

“You won’t like it.”

“Our kind very rarely have the luxury of doing what we like.”

She nodded but hesitated still. Finally, she squared her shoulders, looked him in the eye and said: “As with the Trials, it can only be healed from the inside.”

“You mean…”

“You have to possess her again.”

“Hannah, I _can’t_ do that to her,” Castiel said, driven to his feet by his horror at the thought. “You heard her. I was her _nightmare_ as a child.”

Hannah looked at him, her bright, clever eyes as cold as steel. “I think that will be up to her to decide. If you don’t, she will die.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes an equity maxim from English common law, because I am just a party a minute. 
> 
> This little scene vexed me. However, I hope it doesn't do that to you! 
> 
>  
> 
> How are you? Do anything nice over the Christmas period?


	5. One-Tenth of the Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we remember who has the power, and on who's sufferance they have it.

“Wait,” Dean said. He stepped between Cas and Hannah. He felt like he was shielding one from the other, even though Hannah was merely watching Cas with her normal warm, familiar expression, without a hint of threat. “Wait a minute. What if Cas doesn’t want to? Does he get a vote here, or is consent just for vessels?”

Hannah looked confused, as though the question had never occurred to her. Which, to be fair, it probably hadn’t.

“An angel must actively send themselves into a vessel,” she said, finally, still looking perplexed.

“I would never say no to Claire,” Cas said sharply. Dean blinked in surprise, and Cas blunted the edges of his tone. “Not after everything that’s happened. I feel responsible for her, Dean. She’s ill as a direct result of me possessing her. I did this. And I...” Dean saw his throat flex around a thought he couldn’t voice. ”She means a great deal to me,” he said, at last.

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean said, scrubbing his hand across his face. He swayed a little, an unsteady body in the orbit of something huge and mostly unseen.

“So you understand why I wouldn’t say no to her.” Cas looked at him for a moment, clearly trying to divine the source of Dean’s distress and failing. “I don’t say no to you either,” Cas pointed out, bewildered.

Dean made an incredulous sound. “Dude, you say no to me all the _time_.”

“Not when it matters,” Cas said imploringly, and he was impossible _,_ those eyes were _impossible_ , dark-bright instruments of Dean’s undoing.

“Okay,” Dean said, feeling suitably undone, but determined to press on anyway. “It matters now.” He took a breath to calm himself. It didn’t seem to help. He looked at Hannah.

“Could you excuse us? Uh. You know. Family...family talk.”

Hannah’s frown deepened, no doubt biting back the urge to point out that Castiel was her brother, in whatever sense they used the term in Heaven (it was all a bit nebulous to Dean, if he was honest). But Dean had grabbed onto Cas’ elbow and was leading him down the hall before she could say anything.

“Cas. If she says yes, I mean, look...I, I know it’s rich, me saying this, but Cas, listen to me: think about what this would actually mean. Man, think of the _consequences._ ”

“Trust me,” Cas said. He let himself be lead, but was clearly disgruntled about it. “I can’t think of much else at the moment.” They had reached their room, and Cas pulled his arm away. “You’re suggesting, what, that I just let her _die_?”

“No! No, man. I’m a dick but I’m not _that much_ of a dick, come on. I don't want her to die. And your whole fainting thing is tied to her anyway, remember? I want you both to get better! I’m just saying…” He closed his eyes, attempting to frame the problem in a way that didn’t sound like he was gasping in terror.

This was something Dean had thought about from time to time, usually when halfway down a bottle of single malt and feeling inclined to replay his Top 100 Moments of Being a Total Fuckup (narration by John Winchester, soundtrack by Nick Drake, because if you’re going pick an aesthetic, you need to really _commit_ to it, damn it). Somewhere in the Top 10 was helping trick Sam into being possessed without his consent, and then the desperate scramble to undo the act.

( _Though_ , his mind also liked to add at such times, _the next of kin has the right to make decisions about life support in the absence of written instructions, right? That’s a thing? And this was basically just the divine version of life support, right?_ _ **No**_ _, don’t play lawyer ball, Winchester, own that home run of a failure. That’s Hank Aaron level shit, right there. Out of the park and into the long fucking descent you have yet to pull yourself all the way out of_.)

Dean’s mind didn’t know when to shut up, apparently.

Cas was watching him from his usual position, only inches away. But his normal, patient expression was clouded by something else, smoke across the sun. Dean reached out for him on instinct, afraid that he’d slide to the floor with another heart-sickening thud. But Cas’ gaze was as firm as the line of his shoulders.

“Dean, what...”

“No, listen, alright?” Dean said, cutting him off. “Just listen. Remember when we were trying expel Gadreel from Sam? When I asked you to, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I, I didn’t really _think_ about it at the time, but you never actually said whether you’d be able to get back in, uh, this outfit if you got out of it. Was...” Dean faltered over the question he already knew the answer to. “Can you? Get back into this body? Your body?”

Cas narrowed his eyes at him. “An angel needs explicit consent to inhabit a vessel. You know that.”

“Yeah, so empty vessel means no consent means...”

“I would have been rendered incorporeal, yes.”

“But you were gonna do it anyway,” Dean said. “You were just gonna be a big damn hero.” He felt his his heart drop somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. His stomach threatened to reject it.

“You were fine with it at the time,” Cas snapped. “You _asked_ me to do it.”

“I told you, I wasn’t _thinking_ at the time.” _As usual_ , the voice in the back of his head snarled at him.

“Maybe not. But you did ask. And like I told _you_ : I don’t say no to you when it matters.”

Dean covered his face for a moment, taking a deep breath and resetting his features into something calmer. When he looked back up, Cas had his own eyes averted.

“And Dean, by then I had...remember that the grace powering me wasn’t my own. Do you understand what that means? What I had to do? If I ever doubted that I was a monster, I stopped doubting it then. It was killing me and I deserved it.”

“Hey, you did what you had to do,” Dean said, dipping his head to meet Cas’ eye, silently commanding Cas to look at him.

“Yeah. I did,” Cas agreed. He looked up, doing just as Dean willed (and didn’t he always). His voice was steady again. “But that’s not an absolution. For anything.” He shook his head. “And anyway, what does it matter? It would have been my problem.” He held up his hand to stop Dean’s protest. “Never mind. It didn’t happen, so it wasn’t an issue.”

“Okay, well. One, you’re wrong, and two, it’s an issue _now_. I’m not saying don’t save Claire. I’m just saying...man, I’m trying to think of the fallout of something for once in my miserable life, just go with me here. I know it’s selfish but...”

“You want to make sure that I have a vessel to return to,” Cas said. Dean could practically see the idea roll over his mind, like a cloud bank. “This one,” he added, looking down at his hands, his chest, his shoes.

“ _Yeah,_ genius.” Dean sighed. “I...Cas... I want you _around_. You know, mind, body, the whole deal. And—24 year old me can’t believe I’m saying this, but—I want it to be _this_ body and not a 19 year old girl, OK?” He took a deep breath in the face of Cas’ continued silence. “So can we hang fire on the self-sacrificial shit for two minutes while we think of a plan?”

“You’re...telling me to…”

“Yeah, I know, like I said: rich, coming from me, but you’re not the only one who can learn lessons, Cas. So here’s one I’ve learned: I’m not letting anyone throw you away again. Not even you. _Especially_ not you.”

Cas’ eyes glinted in the lamplight. The tension that had held him at arm’s length all evening eased a fraction, moving him closer, into Dean’s space. He seemed to be searching Dean’s face for something. Dean had no idea if he found it or not, but, judging by the way he was suddenly being kissed as though his life depended on it, he was gonna guess yes.

“Wow, okay,” Dean said when he finally came up for air.

“Thought I’d try it your way.”

“What?”

“Communicating.”

“Isn’t...isn’t that what we were just doing?”

“After a fashion.” He leaned in and kissed Dean again. “I was just...letting you know that I understand.”

“Good,” Dean said, feeling like he’d had half his strings cut. He sagged a little against Cas. “Good.”

“We’ll find a way,” Cas said, with his usual gravity. “There must be a way to slow the spread of the illness. We can...Sam can, uh, man the books. I’ll have Hannah dispatch a team to check Heaven’s Archives. And we’ll try and think of a way around the…”

“The no body problem.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Sweet,” Dean said. “You can, uh, hop on over, heal Claire. And yourself while you're at it. Bonus. Everything'll be fine.”

****

The thing was, Claire had opinions about being possessed, and they were all negative. Dean had to watch as Cas shrank in on himself, until he appeared less a warrior of Heaven and more a chastised child; Dean had seen that look before, under harsh fluorescent lights in a room that smelled of musty old board games and industrial disinfectant. It made something dark and unpleasant twist inside him. Claire and Alex’s heated discussion seemed to singe the air, but when Dean tried to intervene they glared at him so coldly he put his hands up.

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, “It’s alright. Claire’s opinion is justified.”

“Justified but _stupid_ ,” Alex said tearfully. “Claire, please. Please let him do this.”

Claire sat with her knees pulled tight into her chest and her head buried on her arms. She shook her head. “I _can’t_.”

“So you’re cool with dying? And leaving me here...alone?”

Claire looked up at that, bright through her dark matted lashes. “ _No_. Jesus, of course I don’t want to _die,_ Alex. I just…” She scrubbed her hand over her tired eyes. Dean noticed, somehow for the first time, how blue they actually were, how young she looked, and he felt his breath leave him as he looked between her and Cas, taking in their identical expressions.

“I don’t understand,” Alex said, wiping her eyes. “You said yes before. Why’s it different now?”

“I said yes before because…” She dug the heel of her hand into her left eye, hard enough that Dean was sure that it hurt. “Look, I was a kid from a super-religious family. Do you get that? And I wanted to be a good girl and help my parents. I wanted to do the right thing. The _godly_ thing.” She laughed, a watery, bitter laugh. “Only nobody mentions what it’s _actually_ like.” She looked at Cas, then. “I don’t mean...no offense, okay? I know that’s not your fault, it’s just...an angel thing, or whatever. There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s just...you don’t know what possession feels like.”

“Well,” Cas said, meeting her eyes for the first time since this whole fuck started clustering. “If it helps at all, I, uh, I actually do understand.”

Claire sat up straighter and frowned, and the slight downturn of her mouth was so surreally familiar that Dean had to look away momentarily. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been possessed before.”

“ _What_?” Claire asked, startled. “When?”

“I pursued a strategy without understanding all the variables.”

“Understatement,” Dean muttered, before he could stop himself, then opened his mouth to take it back.

“Strategy?” Claire asked, before Dean could say anything.

“Yes. I...well, I was fighting a civil war in Heaven and losing pretty spectacularly, to be honest. I needed to, um,level-up, I think is the term. In the absence of a better option, I consumed an entire realm of souls, thinking I would be strong enough to control them.” He gave a wry quarter-smile. “Hubris seems to run in the family.”

There was a heavy beat of silence, and from the bed, twin sets of startled eyes stared at Cas, where he now sat, slightly awkwardly. “What?” Alex eventually managed to ask. “I didn’t understand any of that.”

“I...overreached. I wasn’t strong enough. Not by a long shot. Some of the...things I had taken into myself wrested control from me. I’ll never forget it. It was like…” He seemed to struggle for a way to describe it.

“Being chained to a comet,” Dean said, finally finding his voice, and unsurprised to find it harsh with emotion.

Cas turned to him, not quite meeting his gaze. He looked as close to crying as he ever looked, but he considered Dean’s words carefully. “Chained, yes. But more like...to a rock in a sea. A sea with no bottom. Down is all there is.” He shrugged. “Of course, then I exploded. I’m not entirely sure how I survived. Or if I even did, frankly. And there was another time when...well, it’s not important. What’s important is that I _do_ know what it’s like to be controlled by something more powerful than you. What it’s like to watch yourself do terrible things and not be able to stop it.” He looked down at his hands. Dean was struck by how much he’d always liked them, their spare elegance, their strength; they weren’t built for violence. “I wouldn’t do anything like that to you, Claire. Not again. But I...I understand why you don’t want this. We’ll try and find another way.”

“And if there isn’t another way?” Alex asked, ostensibly to Cas, but the tremor in her voice betrayed the real target of the question.

“Then I’ll respect Claire’s decision,” Cas said firmly, with his eyes locked on Claire. “And so will everyone else.” The note of finality in his voice sounded like a bell in the overheated room.

Alex swallowed audibly and nodded. “Yeah. Yes. Of course.”

For a long moment no one said anything. Finally, Claire said, in a tired voice: “See if you can, you know...get back in there.”

“We’re working on it,” Dean assured her.

“And see if there’s any other way you can fix….whatever it is that’s wrong with me. If there’s not, then...” Claire closed her eyes, swallowed. “Yes.” The word was clear and precise, her voice steady. She slumped back down into bed. “Now go away, I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Cas said, as they all made to stand.

But Claire’s hand reached out to grab at Alex’s shirt. “Not you,” she murmured. “You stay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Claire scooted over a few inches and turned onto her side. There were damp curls at nape of her neck. “Please.”

Alex’s eyes widened slightly but she knelt on the bed and carefully arranged herself behind Claire. Dean couldn’t back out of the room fast enough, pulling at Cas as he went. He felt as though he’d accidentally arrived at the gate of some dimly-perceived garden, and if he tried to step even a toe inside, he’d ruin it. Which was a weird, overly-poetic way to feel, but hey, Dean was almost used to feeling weird, overly-poetic ways after these last few months.

As he closed the door he heard Alex exclaim: “Oh my god, Claire, you’re like a furnace!”

****

There was nothing in the books that Sam could find about treating Claire’s illness. Not surprising, Dean guessed, since the Darkness itself was pre-biblical, and so none of the lore writers had been around to witness it, let alone its aftereffects. Hannah had despatched a team, as promised, to the Archives, but she’d warned that, being infinitely vast, it ‘might take some time’. That put a pall of urgency to the second part of their plan.

Since Caroline was out of immediate danger, Hannah offered to take Cas’ place, to keep the motor running, so to speak. She did so solemnly but with an air of almost palpable confusion, as she did all things. And god, Dean realized, there was _another_ set of unsettlingly intense blue eyes watching him move around the bunker. Yet again, these weren’t genetically related to Cas in any way, but were clearly and undeniably his _family_. Dean felt like he’d accidentally stumbled into some bizarro Ben Stiller movie, except it starred teenage girls and baffling celestial beasts. Which was actually less terrifying, now that Dean thought about it.

“Hey, yeah, go for it,” Dean had said once the plan had been explained to him. He leaned against the bedroom door and tried to understand the slightly wild-eyed glances Hannah kept darting at him.

“Alright,” Hannah said, with a rapid, sketchy nod aimed towards Castiel. “But I...you’re so much bigger than me,” she said, unexpectedly, and there seemed to be a frisson of panic in her voice.

Cas looked down his body with a frown. “Well, yes, it might be uncomfortable, but you should still be able to fit. ”

Dean ignored the obvious string of jokes that sprang to mind, because that would be a little _too_ weird. Even for him, who found himself saying the weirdest shit he’d ever said every few weeks.

“It isn’t that, Castiel,” Hannah said, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. “You _know_ that the one doing the possessing is always more powerful than the one being possessed.”

Dean frowned, the thought and its implications sliding slimy and cold under his skin. “Okay, gross. And also, if that was the case, how’d my brother manage eighty six the devil back there in Stull?”

Hannah blinked. Her attention settled skittishly back on Dean. What the hell? “I don’t know. None of us do, and it’s something that we have talked a great deal about in the intervening years, believe me. I suspect that Sam was able to tap into the power of his soul in a way that most human beings can’t. You truly have no idea how powerful they are, Dean, because you can only access a fraction of that power while you live. A human overtaking an archangel? It should be impossible. But somehow Sam managed it.” She looked back at Cas. “And this is...this has never been done before, either. Not like this. If it was the other way around, then, maybe...”

“We have to try, Hannah,” Cas said, with a placating hand on her arm and a reassuring smile. “As you said, sometimes impossible things can be done.”

She nodded tensely, then squared her shoulders. Her jaw was smooth and soft where the other had been rough with stubble, but the determined set of it was exactly the same. “Alright. Yes.” She sat down on the bed--on Dean and Castiel’s bed--with one more furtive look towards Dean, before fixing her attention on Cas. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Cas said.

It occurred to Dean just what that series of _yeses_ had meant just as Hannah’s head tipped back and the hot ultrawhite streamer of grace spouted from her mouth. It was all happening much too fast. Dean’s synapses began firing to propel him forward, but they hadn’t even sparked enough to spit out the ‘wait’ that lurked on the tip of his tongue. Dean closed his eyes against the glare. The image of Caroline’s body falling across the bed burned into the backs of his eyelids. And then…

“Damn it,” Dean heard Cas say over the ragged syncopation of his heartbeat. He sounded so thoroughly irritated (and normal) that Dean’s eyes flew open before the sunspots had completely cleared.

Cas had staggered back a half step, looking like he’d just stepped out of a bar and into a wind tunnel. But he was still recognizably _Cas_ and Dean stepped over to him before he had fully formed the thought to do so.

“Jesus Christ, warn a guy.” Dean said, taking a shaky breath, and then another and another.

Hannah sat up on the bed, fully ensconced in her vessel once more. She cocked her head at him, birdlike. “What did you think we came in here to do, Dean?”

“Yeah but…”

“Apologies,” Cas said, a word that meant that Cas was merely trying to forestall an argument rather than actually apologize (that got _I’m sorry, Dean,_ an abject phrase that Dean secretly hoped he never heard again in his life). “I thought our purpose was clear. I see that it wasn’t.”

“No, it’s just…”

“Regardless, we failed. We’ll have to think of another solution.”

Hannah was standing again, looking thoughtful. “It our graces,” she said rubbing the skin of her arms—so strange to see them bare; it almost seemed indecent and Dean wondered if he should get her a jacket—as though she’d received an electric shock. “The frequencies are too similar.”

Cas made a sound of agreement, which meant that at least one person in the room was following this conversation.

“So what’s that mean?” Dean asked, when no more information followed.

“Static, for one thing.” Cas said. “A lot of...painful static. If Hannah were stronger she could...override it, I think.”

Hannah nodded, shivered, then dropped her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It isn’t going to work.”

“Wait, why not?” Dean asked. “Can’t you just...get someone bigger?”

“Castiel is a seraph.”

“I _know_ that,” Dean said, irritably, as though that were something he was likely to forget. As though he hadn’t spent idle hours leafing lore books, somewhere between _Selkie_ and _Shen_ , when he had the library to himself. “So?”

“The only thing stronger than that is an archangel, and we have none of those.” Hannah was getting that slightly panicked look again, a subtle widening of the eyes and shift in posture that Dean recognized from Cas’ early days on the ground, before emotions and their expression had sunk into him. “The seraph is the most powerful angel in Heaven now, malakim and cherubim come nowhere close. ”

Cas himself hadn’t bothered to straighten his shirt from the angelic jumper-cable mishap, and so Dean found himself doing it, almost on autopilot. He stilled for a moment when he remembered that Hannah was there, but what the hell, he figured.

“What about another seraph?” Cas asked, over Dean’s shoulder, raising his chin slightly to allow Dean to fix his collar. “Raziel, perhaps. She served under Anna with me, before we were assigned to earth.” Dean saw Cas frown at whatever face Hannah made behind him. “What? I can...I can dial it back, I think, so…”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Castiel,” Hannah said with a curtness she had not displayed in years. “I think we should turn our attention to a different kind of solution. One that doesn’t involve angels.”

“Well, that will be difficult, considering that I'm an angel.”

Dean turned in time to see Hannah duck her head. A learned gesture, probably, but one that had a real purpose: evasion. “I mean,” she said, slowly, “that perhaps we need to look at a more...organic solution.”

“Meaning what?” Cas asked, and Dean felt rather suddenly like he’d stepped in the path of two wolves. Oh sure, there were no claws and fangs _yet_ , but the potential for them suddenly seemed very real, and he felt the need to placate.

“Woah, hey, you know, Cas, I think we should listen to Hannah here. You said she’s a medic, right? So why don’t we trust the expert on this one, huh?”

“You’re right.” He nodded, chastened. “I’m sorry, Hannah. What do you want to do?”

Hannah looked relieved. “A human soul.”

There was a long beat of silence at that. “You want...you want Cas to eat a human soul?”

Hannah drew back at the suggestion, looking mildly horrified. “No, of course not. What purpose would that serve?”

“You said…”

“I suggest we try letting a human soul possess the vessel that Castiel is in.”

“Human-on-angel action?” Dean asked. “How does that even work?” It was only when he saw Hannah’s mild horror tip into full-on horror that he realized the misfortune of his phrasing. “I didn’t mean like _that_ ,” Dean said, and oh, god, this _was_ a bad rom-com after all.

“Dean, perhaps we should let Hannah finish,” Cas said, salvaging the situation.

“Yeah.”

“I do not know if it will work,” Hannah said, regaining her composure with admirable swiftness. “But from what I just experienced, I think the odds are much better.”

“The frequencies, you mean?” Dean asked, trying to get his head around the idea.

“Yes,” Hannah said decisively.

“Because you guys are…” Dean waved his hands uncertainly through the air. “Wavelengths. Or whatever.”

“It’s all wavelengths,” Cas said, as though this was something they’d discussed before.

“Huh?”

“Everything is wavelengths, Dean. Light. Sound. Time. Gravity. Particles. Angels. Literally everything in Creation is a wavelength. That includes souls.” At Dean’s clearly gormless expression, he raised his eyebrows. “I mean, how do you think I can reach into your body and touch your soul at all? Your body isn’t a solid. Well, it _is_ a solid, of course but it’s…”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, shaking his head. “We can stow the Brian Cox act until after we’ve figured this out. So, okay, angelic frequencies are too close together, they clash, right?”

Hannah and Castiel both nodded. Dean almost expected them to blink in unison.

“But human souls and and angels are...what’s the word? Complementary?”

“Yes,” Cas said, looking at Dean with an expression of such open admiration and pride that Dean looked down at the floor on instinct. Huh. He needed to vacuum in here.

“Exactly.” Cas turned his attention to Hannah. “Hannah, I think you’re right. A human soul.” He looked towards the ceiling, past it, calculating and hopeful in equal measure, a look that Dean would never grow tired of seeing. Castiel with a plan was one of the best versions of him, particularly when the plan didn’t involve him throwing himself on a pyre. Dean could practically see a strategy clicking into place behind his eyes, resolute and urgent. He looked back at them. “It will be...well, it’ll be uncomfortable, I imagine. But in a different kind of way. Never mind. I’m more concerned about _them_ in his instance. We can’t ask this of just anyone.”

“Well, Claire’s fever seems to be holding steady,” Dean said, slinging his arm around Cas’ shoulder. “So we’ve got time to do this right, for once.”

****

Eight hours later, Claire’s fever spiked again, her body creaking like old leather held together by rusted pins, while Alex held her hand. Nine hours later, Jimmy Novak was sitting in the bunker.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I was slowed by a couple of things. One: I saw 11x10 and **had a lot of feelings about it** that I [had to get out](https://archiveofourown.org/series/396583) (and still have to finish getting out, apparently). So many feelings! GAH!
> 
> Two: there were a lot of thorny consent issues in here. I had to think about them a lot. I hope I've dealt with them all sensitively, but please let me know if there's something you have questions about. 
> 
> I can't wait until I can write about Claire doing some fun things for once. 
> 
> How are you? You doing okay?


	6. That Which We Are, We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family bonding, of a sort.

It was different in here. Strange. Stranger than most things he could remember, to fit into a vessel that was made for him but not made _for_ him. Strange, also, to think of Claire as a _vessel:_  the end result of a collection of circumstances orchestrated by Heaven, a purpose rather than a _person._

 _Oh, Claire_ , Castiel thought, _you wouldn’t even exist if not for me._ The realization sent up another fireflare in his chest, the kind he felt more and more when he thought of her. Similar to Dean, but not; similar to Sam, but not; similar in more ways to his siblings but, then again, not. He hadn’t put a name to it, because...well, because she wouldn’t want him to put a name to it. She wouldn’t want it _at all_. He knew that. And so he veiled it, and felt it burning in the dark.

Nothing fit quite right. And yet this is how it had always been for him, until recently. He only found it strange now because he was, himself, the strange one. Remnants of his grace called out to him like echoes from someplace far away. Notes from a foreign country.  It both did and did not sound like him any more, and it made him shiver like stars.

He picked his way as gently as he could, afraid to touch anything forcefully, lest he damage it. He ran the tips of fingers and wings across Claire’s soul, feeling out hurts and snags. Some of them were merely the residue of life: quotidian heartbreaks and angers and thwarted hopes, the same as anyone’s. Some were tinged with celestial fire and demon smoke, old war wounds on someone too young to bear them. He’d put some of them there himself. Though he noticed, with an odd mixture of guilt and...whatever thing it was he felt, that those ones had healed over. The quality of their light was different, but undimmed. _Interesting._

No. He had no time to think about that. The pockmarks dimpling the bright gleam of Claire’s soul, blacker than nothing, felt intensely... _wrong._ The wrong kind of emptiness: not of potential but of absence, of absolute lack. They were growing as he watched. Fractionally, hardly noticeable in some places. But the bigger they became, the faster they grew, as though the weight of them dragged Claire’s soul into it, warping it like the event horizon around a black hole. Around the edges, her soul burned hot and desperate. Almost as hot, in fact, as grace.

Castiel leaned forward, ran the edge of one feather across a smaller wound and watched in amazement as the light of Claire’s soul followed its trail, knitting back together over the phosphorescent scrim of grace. But it hurt a little, the way the cold had sometimes hurt him when he lived as a human being.

What had Hannah said? _It’s like the remnants of grace don’t know the battle’s over._

****

Sam had looked through all the books he could think of to try and find an explanation, but there was nothing. Then, in a flash of insight, he’d run back to his room and got what they’d taken to calling The Old Book--the one that Elle had given them months ago, in its fragrant box of cedarwood and cypress--and its codex of hand-written notes.

“Okay,” Sam said, drawing on the gloves he wore for the most delicate of work, “I think I’ve found it. Grace is a manifestation of angelic intent, right?"

_There are about a thousand different inaccuracies in that statement but…_

“Uh, sure.”

“So,” Sam said, heedless of the gap in Cas' tone, “what’s an angel with a task do?”

“It…” Castiel began, then blinked, hard. “It completes its task.”

“Or else.”

“Yes. Or else.”

“And if you saw a threat, what would you do?”

“Neutralize it.”

“Exactly! Claire got hit by the Darkness, and when Hannah managed to get it all dispersed, this didn’t go anywhere, because your grace _wouldn’t let it._  It’s determined to neutralize the threat.”

“So how do we get it out of her?” Dean asked, leaning over the table between them with mouth and eyes downcast. “Any way we can avoid, uh…” He drew a formless, agitated shape in the air.

But of course, Sam could read it. “I mean, there might be another way...you know, a backup plan,” Sam said, flipping a page of the spiral bound notebook.

“Yeah, she was big on those,” Dean said. “Except I’m hearing a _but_ in there somewhere…”

“ _But_ , I’m gonna need time to find it, time to gather the ingredients, time to practice the spell.”

“Time’s the one thing we don’t have,” Castiel said, shaking his head. “What we do have is me.”

Dean rubbed his hand across his face, scraping against stubble, and shifted on his feet, but he said nothing. Cas could practically hear the unspoken diatribe ringing in the air, but he had to give Dean points for trying.

There had been that moment, just before, when the Heaven-white gossamer of a human soul had hovered inches from his upturned face, that Castiel had almost reconsidered. He stood watching it ( _Not it, him_ , Cas reminded himself) on the bunker’s roof, Hannah at one elbow and Dean...Dean downstairs somewhere fieldstripping his guns.

“Castiel.” His name, as it so frequently did, held a thousand questions.

Cas cut his eyes over towards Hannah but didn’t lower his head. He watched the flare of the free-floating soul illuminate this corner of the night, like a piece of the sun come crashing to earth. He breathed in the cool, damp air. It was raining somewhere to the east. Downstairs, Claire’s fever raged, and Jody was trying to keep Alex from pacing a hole in the floor. They were waiting on him.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, turned his eyes back towards the sky.

Then: “Yes.”

****

“Well.” Cas had been so focused on his work that he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He started, bristling with energy along the edges of his wings, which he hastily drew in around himself. “Here we are.”

“Claire.” Something like guilt bit at him, though he knew that, for once, he had no reason to feel guilty. “I...didn’t realize you’d be awake.”

She smiled at him in lieu of answering. “You look like a big ball of lightning like that,” she said. There was a distinct trace of amusement in her voice, which surprised him. In here, the effects of the fever were diminished. Her eyes were bright and clear, though she seemed to be moving slowly. “But you don’t have to hide your face; I don’t care.”

“It’s not a very nice face.”

She considered that for a moment, still moving towards him with a measured, but slightly tight gate that spoke of pain. “It’s weird,” she said, letting her gaze travel, untroubled. “I can see you. Or, I guess, my dad. But I can also see _you_. Is that normal?”

“Nothing about this is normal.”

Claire gave a short, sharp laugh. “Yeah, no shit.” She crossed her arms. “Still, my house, my rules. Lemme see.”

“Claire…”

“Seriously, I don’t care. I’m not,” she paused and swallowed. “I’m not scared.”

“That’s not true.”

She stared at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes and put up her hands, the very picture of teenaged disdain. “Ugh. Fine, whatever.”

This unexpected and peculiar surrender irritated him. For some reason, an image of Dean flitted through his mind. Cas sighed and, without entirely understanding why, drew back his wings.

Claire’s eyes widened and her throat worked around whatever it was she was trying not to say. Cas fervently hoped that she wouldn’t drop to her knees and start weeping. He hadn’t minded so much when the odd shepherd or sailor did it, but he didn’t think he could stand it from Claire. He remembered how unnerved Dean had been at just the sight of his wings.

Fortunately, it was easier here. She wasn't tethered to her senses the way she was in the waking world.

And more importantly, Claire was not the fall-to-the-ground-weeping sort.

“Woah,” she said, at last. The word came out breathy, and she cleared her throat. “That’s...that’s…”

“I know,” Cas said, dodging her gaze.

“Yeah, right,” Claire said. “I was gonna say ‘pretty badass’, you dork.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I mean also really goddamn freaky. No offence,” she added quickly.

“None taken.”

“But cool,” she said, stepping closer, her shock quickly giving way to something intent and serious. “I had no idea.”

“This isn’t all of it,” Cas said. “You just can’t see it, because it would kill you.” He thought for a moment. “Or drive you to madness. Fifty-fifty.”

She took that in with no comment beyond: “Huh.” Her eyebrows drew together in a look of intense concentration. She was standing very close to him now, and Cas had to fight the urge to back up a few steps. Her hand drifted towards him and he flinched involuntarily. “Oh. Sorry, should’ve asked.”

“It’s okay, just...um. Odd.”

She laughed again. “I don’t remember any of this from last time.”

“You were...under for much of it. I think you were watching _The Little Mermaid_ and eating chocolate.” He didn’t say that this was done largely for practicality, because her non-stop screaming had distracted him, rather than out of kindness; he was glad he’d done it, anyway. Even unintentional kindesses counted, surely.

Claire looked surprised again. “What, the chocolates out of the blue box? Ha, oh man. That was my mom’s secret stash. I got in so much trouble when she found the empty box a month later.” She grinned. “Totally worth it, though. That was a good memory.”

“I dislike _The Little Mermaid_ ,” Cas said, scanning his memory for the film in question. Why Metatron had watched it at all, he had no idea.

“What? It’s a classic!”

“I dunno,” he said, feeling the ridiculousness of the situation settle on him. “It’s troubling that she should be expected to change everything about herself, even her species, in order to be worthy of love. And she’d be separated from her family forever.”

“Wow, I bet you’re fun at parties.”

“I’ve never…” He blinked, all eyes in unison, and Claire chuckled. “Ah, yes. Sarcasm. I’m familiar.”

“What happened here?” She asked, with the sudden, grave curiosity of a child. Her hand came up again, and landed gently on both the side of her father’s--his--face, and on the broad plane of the auroch’s face that he’d turned towards her, hoping its calm demeanor would frighten her less. The shorter horns gave it away as female, but he doubted she’d know that. He’d forgotten about the missing eye.

“A memento from one of my brothers,” Cas said, ruefully. “We fought. Or rather, he kicked me into next week and then took this,” he turned fully into the touch, and she ran her hand across the closed-over wound, unflinching, “as a trophy.”

“Fuck. And I thought my family was messed up.”

“They were. Sorry about that. But at least I had the last laugh in this case.”

“You kicked him into next week, huh.” She gave him a small scratch behind the ear, ran her hand through his hair fondly.

“You could say that, yeah.” He couldn’t quite make himself smile. “I really screwed up afterward. But stopping Raphael...well, I’m still proud of it, even though I shouldn’t be. And so his trophy became my trophy.”

“What did he want to do?” She asked, stepping around him to peer into the burning gold eyes of a lion. She scratched under its chin. “And how’d you get these?”  Scars there, too, he remembered, one straight and thin, across the bridge of the nose, and a short, jagged one disappearing into the shadow of the mane.

“Raphael?” Cas asked, losing the thread slightly under the scrutiny. “Uh. He wanted to restart the Apocalypse. Wasn’t very happy with us stopping The Grand Plan. And I don’t remember how I got those. One’s a blade, one’s probably from teeth. Or claws, maybe.”

“There was gonna be a _second_ Apocalypse?” She’d moved again, staring into the eagle’s face, with its scythe of a beak and ruthless eyes. There were feathers missing along the neck, which he lifted to show her. She made a little ‘tisk’ of sympathetic displeasure and felt the scarred skin there.

“Those were burned off by Hellfire when I...um, during a mission,” he offered. “And, yes. Heaven likes to stick to their plans. Apparently there’s a lot of paperwork involved.”

“You should definitely be proud of stopping that.” She spoke lightly but decisively, and Cas felt a spark of surprised pleasure at her words. She stepped around again and stalled. “Uh. So. I can’t...actually see what’s here.”

“It’s the fourth face,” Cas said.

“Yeah, I figured.” She looked at him, in his human form. “Why can’t I see it? I mean, I can tell it’s _there,_  but…”

“I told you, there's still much you won’t be able to perceive, even in here. Maybe when you’re dead.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Alright, wait,” Cas said, concentrating. “How about now?”

“My dad’s face again?”

“Hey, this isn’t easy to do. But fine.” He concentrated again, feeling slightly winded.

“Oh, holy hell, no, that’s...that’s too weird! Change it back.”

“Nonsense. You were a very cute child.” He was baiting her, he knew, but sometimes humans made it so easy.

“Oh my god, Castiel.”

“Alright, fine.” He felt like he’d just run a mile underwater. “Here. Last one. I don’t think I can manage any more.”

“Who’s _that_?”

“The last vessel I remember taking before the moratorium came down. A Nubian priestess.”

“She looks like a frigging supermodel.”

“I wouldn’t know. Human aesthetics are very new to me.”

She rolled her eyes again, but the look on her face was affectionate. “You’re so weird.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Has Dean ever seen all this?”

“I...don’t think Dean would like this very much.”

“Pfft, please. I bet he’d think it was awesome. Dean worships the ground you walk on."

Cas shifted uncomfortably at her words, even though he was sure it was just a turn of phrase. Claire seemed to catch something in it, though, and turned her attention back to the face that she and Dean both knew best. He felt his true form slip from her focus, fading back until it was no longer visible. He realized that they were standing in a tastefully-appointed but subdued living room: Claire’s old house. He recognized that TV. “I just mean,” Claire was saying, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The way he looks when he talks about you. It’s pretty gross, really.” She sat down on the couch.

Cas joined her. “Dean talks about me?”

“Oh _my god,_ ” Claire squealed. Her eyes were alight with mirth. “You should see your face right now.”

“In fairness,” Cas said, flustered under the attention and wanting to turn it elsewhere, “Alex looks at you the same way. Or...um, Annie?”

Claire’s laughter suddenly died and she glanced away, running her hand through her hair. “Shut up. She doesn’t.”

“Like she’d try and kill an angel with her bare hands if it hurt you? Yeah, she does.” He considered. “If she’s at all like Dean, she might even succeed.”

Claire’s face had gone red, but she let out a breath at that. “Heh. Yeah, she probably would.” She smoothed her hair down again, then addressed his earlier question, with a thoughtful look. “She goes by Alex, but her real name’s Annie. I only just found out a month ago, can you believe it?”

“She told you her true name.” He smiled.

“Wha...yeah, I guess she did. It’s not...like that, though.”

“It’s not?” The blush was beginning to creep back up her face, towards her ears, and Castiel finally took pity on her. “Well, I’m not the best person to ask about these kinds of things, I suppose. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I dunno,” Claire said, smiling as well. “You’re not that bad.” She reached out and patted his arm. Then she squinted in evident confusion. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Do you feel that?”

“Feel what? I don’t….” But then he realized what he didn’t feel: the whole time he’d been alone, painstakingly closing each bitterblack wound, he’d felt pain. The bleak rasp of it as he’d taken on the damage himself, bit by bit, and healed it there. It had been slow, exhausting work, to swallow up the nothingness and keep himself whole in the process, desperate tessellations of light and dark. Now it was gone. “Feel anything,” he finished, wonderingly.

“Me neither,” Claire said, in the same tone of voice. “Do you think it worked? You think I’m better? I’m so _over_ feeling like I’m burning to death from the inside.”

“Yes, that is unpleasant,” Cas said, standing and casting his gaze to all corners. “Claire..I--I think it might have worked.”

“You think it was because we were having our very special episode moment?”

He squinted at her.

“You know, the power of love.”

He felt the nameless fire blaze up and burn away its veil. He swallowed. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “But, um, I’m going to have to put you under in order to check.”

Claire gave an unhappy pout and what Cas was almost sure would be deemed ‘puppy dog eyes’, having seen a similar expression on Sam, but in the end she didn’t argue. “Okay, I guess.” She stood, and he reached his hand towards her forehead. “Hey, um.” He stopped, his fingers hovering half an inch away. “When I’m awake will I...will I remember any of this?”

“Do you _want_ to?” He dropped his hand.

“Kinda, yeah,” she said, looking at her shoes. “I...I’ve kind of enjoyed our talk. And our time together.”

“Me too.” He took a deep breath. “Some of it you will remember, Claire, but I couldn’t say how much. I don’t really know how the human mind responds to memories of possession. Even the, uh, collaborative kind. I’m sorry.”

She looked disappointed but nodded. “Well,” she said, raising her chin. “I hope I remember what you look like.” She gave him a brash smile again. “Okay, come on, you sap. Let’s do this. I want to wake up and eat my weight in french fries.”  

“That can be arranged.”

“Oh, no, wait,” she said again. “One more thing. How’d you manage this, anyway? You’re gonna be able to get back in your own...vessel, right?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, I’ll be able to get back in.”

“So, who was the lucky volunteer?”

He cleared his throat. He hadn’t been forbidden from telling her he just...had hoped it wouldn’t come up. He had no idea how she’d take it, and so didn’t know which would be the greater kindness here: the truth or a lie? He should’ve asked Sam before it all went ahead, he should have…

“Cas?”

He squared his jaw, pressed his fingers to her forehead and said: “It’s your father, Claire.”

He caught her before she hit the ground, and laid her gently on the couch. The living room dissolved.

All around him, the light was shining. Beautiful. It was so beautiful.

His work was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Cas being seen.


	7. Fealty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, quiet interlude over books and beer.

If there was a competition for the world’s most uncomfortable silence, Sam was pretty sure the one currently occurring in Claire’s room would sweep up in all categories. It would certainly set a world record, possibly to stand for eternity, for levels of sheer awkwardness.

“I’ll just, uh…in the kitchen,” Sam said, after he couldn’t stand it any longer. Two sets of eyes snapped to him at once, but no one said anything in reply. He backed out of the door, only daring to exhale once it had closed behind him.

He found Alex and Jody sitting at the war room table. Alex had earbuds in and sat with her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a look that she’d probably learned from her time living in a vampire nest. Then again, it might have just been how teenagers looked. Or how people in love...he glanced away.

Jody watched him over the edge of a book--some dry tome on classifying the undead; he remembered a lot of charts--and raised her eyebrows. “How’s it going in there?”

“It’s uh…” Sam cast around for an appropriate word. “Tense.”

“Claire?” Alex asked, holding one earbud away from her ear. Sam didn’t recognize the song coming out of it. It sounded angry.

He shook his head. “Nothing yet. Sorry, Alex.”

She put the earbud back in and got up, heading for the kitchen.

“Tense,” Jody said. She put the book down. “I bet. If I was in...either of their places, I’d sure as hell be tense.”

“Yeah.” He sat down in the chair Alex had vacated, next to Jody.

Jody pursed her lips, like she was trying to keep whatever she was thinking from being said. “I just...I hope it works, Sam.”

“Me, too.”

“Things have been rough for those girls,” she said. “I just--I want them to be happy.”

“I know you do, Jody.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. It was a kind of friendly intimacy he so seldom shared with another human being. It almost floored him. The only people he saw with any regularity these days were angels, mostly. While Cas had taken to the idea of tactility, the most Hannah had ever done was press his arm, once, in a moment of great agitation. That was practically jumping his bones. Jody, for her part, seemed to appreciate it, and placed her free hand on top of his. Up close, he could see the lingering fatigue. Sam knew the look of someone Keeping It Together. Hell, that’s where he and Dean and Cas had lived most of their lives up to now (and often still did). But add two supernaturally traumatized teenagers to the mix and…“What you do for them is really great.” He swallowed. “You’re a good mom.”

She managed a smile. “Thanks, kiddo.” She dipped her head. “Some things, you don’t forget, I guess.”

“Jody…” Sam found himself hugging her into his his side. They sat there quietly for a few moments.

“I know she’s...not mine,” Jody said, against him. “Logically, I _know_ that. Hell, I’ve only known her for a little while, really. But…”

“I get it,” Sam said. “And they’re gonna do everything they can, alright? Look, kids--aren't my forte. Dean, he’s the one that's good with them. He has a lot more experience with kids than me, and--experience losing them, too.”

“What?” Jody asked, pulling away. Her eyes were bloodshot.

Sam shook his head. “Another time. Just. Believe me when I say he gets how important this is. And Cas, well. Claire’s not his, not technically, but…”

“He loves her.” 

“Yeah, he does.” So simple, when said like that. Of course Jody would say the words. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand their power. It’s just that she wasn’t afraid of it. He heard rattling in the kitchen: cutlery drawer, plates, the sound of the fridge opening. Teenagers ate a hell of a lot, he remembered, and Alex had probably been hungry for a while now. They’d have to go on a supply run soon. The grocery store in Smith Center had just reopened, apparently, sparing them the drive to Hastings, or, worse the National Guard base in Hutchinson.

Of course, Hannah would just bring them food, if they asked. But she’d flown the coop as soon as Castiel had taken possession of Claire and Dean had asked her to leave. Plus, he didn’t like to bother her. She’d shifted her attention to the re-ordering of Heaven--the Darkness, though neutralized, had, as Castiel put it “re-calibrated things” in every realm. Then, there was the issue of reestablishing power grids on the west coast, which meant that, sometime in the next few weeks, Sam was going to have to go to the Hoover Dam for reasons that he didn’t fully understand. He should probably mention that to Dean. They could probably rustle up a hunt out that way without too much trouble. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jody said, touching him again.

“Sorry, just uh...wondering how you cope. Y’know, with two teenagers in the house.”

She rolled her eyes. She was always quick to return to equilibrium. “Cope? You don’t _cope_ with teenagers, Sam. You hang on for dear life. And contemplate running away to join the circus every other day.”

They laughed. “Yeah, I’ve had a taste of both Alex and Claire’s, uh, displeasure. But they seem like good kids.”

“Hearts as big as all outdoors,” Jody agreed. “And attitudes to match.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’ve missed grown up conversation,” she admitted.

“Yeah, I’m kinda enjoying the novelty of discussing normal human problems with an actual normal human.”

“ _Hey_ , watch who you’re calling normal, Winchester.”

Sam smiled and felt warmer than he had in weeks. “You want a beer?”

“You’ve got _beer_?”

“Gift from, uh, some friends of mine. But Cas keeps talking about trying to brew our own.”

“The angel.”

“Yeah?”

“Wants to make beer.”

Sam laughed outright at that, then belatedly remembered the reality of the situation down the hall, and quieted himself. “I don’t know what Claire’s told you, but, uh...Cas is…”

“Not like most angels?”

“That’s--putting it mildly. But no, angels, they, they’re hardly immune to the, uh, niceties of...the human world.”

Jody gave him a dry look, and he laughed again. “Not like that. Or...no, actually, like that. Sometimes. But yeah. If there’s an intoxicant available, Cas’ll try it. Besides, I’m pretty sure he was around when beer was invented, so it’s hardly the weirdest thing he’s ever wanted to do.”

“All that time going to church,” Jody said. “And no one mentioned anything about raging keggers in Heaven.”

“Heaven’s what you make it,” Sam said. “Literally.” 

Jody nodded, turning thoughtful and somber all at once. “That’s. That’s comforting, Sam.” She glanced back, towards the bedrooms, without seeming to be aware that she was doing it.

“Hey,” Sam said, catching her hand again. “That doesn’t mean they’re going to just---let her die. Okay? Cas is a stubborn son of a bitch, and Claire’s no pushover, either. Just...sit tight and, uh, have faith.”

“Faith,” Jody said. “Right.” She let out a long breath. “Think I’ll take you up on that beer now, Sam.”

“Okay,” Sam said, attempting to stand. Jody grabbed him.

“Where are they?”

“Uh, bottom drawer of the fridge?” 

“ALEX!” Jody called, making Sam jump. _Mom voice, woah_ , damn.

“ _What_?”

“Go in the bottom drawer of the fridge and get three beers!”

“Three?” Sam asked, just as Alex peered around the kitchen door to ask the same thing.

“I think everyone in this room could use one.” Alex and Sam gave her twin wide-eyed looks and she said: “What? We’re way outside my jurisdiction here.”

“Good,” Alex said. “‘Cause I was gonna have one anyway.”

“ _You_ , Alex? Disregard rules? _Never_.” At Alex’s eyeroll, Jody sighed. “Just get in here.”

Alex came in carrying three bottles, green and cold, and Sam twisted off the caps “Huh,” he said, catching sight of the label.

“What?” Alex asked, with the bottle halfway to her mouth already.

“Saint Jude.” He held the bottle up. It showed a sad-looking man in a white robe and green mantle, with a large gold coin around his neck.

“Nice bling,” Alex said derisively. “Patron saint of pimps?”

“Hopeless causes,” Sam said.

She fell quiet.

“Well,” Alex said, after a moment. She held her bottle out. “Here’s to hopeless causes. They’re the only kind worth having.”

The clunk of glass-on-glass seemed loud, and, as they sat, Sam knew they each had their own cause to drink to. After a moment, Alex reached out and laced her fingers together with Jody’s, and they drank in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay. I really wanted to write Sam's POV and to pull back the focus a little and spend a moment with the other people in the bunker. I hope I've captured Sam's softer side without falling into the trap of Sam is 100% a Big Sensitive Marshmallow. 
> 
> After spending **so long** (so very long) on my DCBB, it's been an ~~terrifying~~ interesting exercise to drop myself back into this alternative, quasi-post-apocalyptic universe and check in with everybody.  
>  Now that I've taken some time away from this universe, I think I might wrap this one up sooner than I'd anticipated and maybe deal with the issues I wanted to discuss in several shorter time stamps. I don't know! What do you think?


	8. No Rival in the Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It was said of Calchas that, as an augur, he had no rival in the camp._

Whatever Cas had done to this room to make it feel less claustrophobic had long since worn off. The air felt heavy, hot--six inches from Hell, from where Dean sat. Or maybe he was just projecting. That was a thing he did, apparently. Either way, he couldn’t stay still. The trickle of sweat working its way down his back threatened to drive him crazy;  the humid sounds of Claire’s breathing (and, worse, the long stretches of cold silence) gnawed at him. He fidgeted, until he began to annoy himself and had to sit on his hands. Several times, he realized he was out of his chair and pacing before he’d even noticed he’d moved.

For his part, Cas-- _Jimmy_ , Jimmy, damn it--seemed to respond to Dean’s inability to stay in one place by remaining as still as possible. If it weren’t for the set of his shoulders and mouth as he stared down at Claire, Dean could almost convince himself that it _was_ Cas. That preternatural stoicism--back before he knew anything, he thought it was tranquility-- used to unnerve him. Still did, but for different reasons, this time.

“You sure you don’t want a beer?” It was probably the fourth time he’d asked that, maybe the fifth. “Or a…a sandwich, or something? Hell, I think I got some ground chuck still knocking around in the freezer, I could make burgers.”

“No. Thank you.” There was a sharp edge of annoyance to the words, but Jimmy didn’t bother looking at him this time, and Dean was secretly glad. He was finding it hard to look the guy in the face. Every time he did, he felt the universe slide ever-so-slightly out of place, like its timing belt was about to fail. “It wouldn’t…” He stopped and shook his head, without ever taking his eyes away from Claire.

Dean considered letting it go. He wasn’t really in the mood for a heart-to-heart here. But that wasn’t fair. Jimmy was a good guy, one who’d given up everything for a cause he believed in, and who’d been royally screwed over in the process (a pretty big club, where the Apocalypse was concerned). And now he’d been yanked from the land of eternal R and R and put right back in a shitty situation, because...because he was a good man. A good, if irritable, man. Dean could kinda see why he’d been Cas’ vessel, to be honest.

So, Dean took a deep breath. “It wouldn’t what?”

Now Jimmy _did_ look at him, and Dean’s hands clenched in his lap, looking for something to grab onto. “Um,” Jimmy said. “It wouldn’t…” He was silent for a long moment, and pressed the heel of his palm into his eye, like he was fighting off a hangover. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

Jimmy sighed. “I don’t know if you can understand it. Just...being shoved back into a body like this, after being...not in one for a long time.”

Dean crossed his arms. “As a matter of fact, I can.”

Jimmy smiled, fleetingly, at that, and Dean was struck again by the strangeness of it: almost the right person, almost the right smile, almost the right voice. _Almost_ : a word that defined most of Dean’s life.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “I guess you can. Hell. I remember that.”

  
“You _remember_ that?”

“Well, not...directly. I had Castiel’s memories of it, but, uh, it’s a little bit beyond human understanding, isn’t it?”

 _Man_ , Dean thought, _I wish that was true_. He decided, at the last second, not to say that. _Maybe dial the dickishnes down to a shout there, Winchester._ “Chained to a comet,” he said instead, softening his tone.

A smile passed over Jimmy’s face again, though it didn’t look very happy. “Mm-hm.” The chair squeaked as he sat back. “I think when I’m...Upstairs...I’m probably able to understand it better. But here? No dice.” He shook his head. “Anyway. It’s, uh. Nothing _fits_ . Everything feels wrong. I feel like I’ve been, I don’t know--folded? Like there’s not enough space and at the same time...too much space? I feel like I’m...in a room that goes on forever but I can’t....” He clutched at his hair, frustrated. “Damn it, I can’t even use _words_.”

“That sucks. Sounds like some real _House of Leaves_ crap,” Dean said, nodding in sympathy.

“Never read it,” Jimmy said absently as he looked back down at Claire. “My tastes ran, uh, pretty conservative, in the literary department. Though I did like some of the Beat writers.”

Dean noted the past tense with a shiver. Upright and talking and counting himself a dead man. “Yeah,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

“Look at her,” Jimmy said, in a completely different tone of voice, one that made Dean suddenly feel like he was an intruder. Jimmy pressed his hand gently against Claire’s forehead. “She’s so beautiful. She was practically Amelia’s twin when she was little. You know, nose, smile...but those ears, those are one hundred percent Ivanov--that’s my mom’s side of the family.” This time, his smile was genuine. “The eyes, too.”

“Yeah,” Dean said again, clearing his throat. “She’s...she’s a good kid. Smart as a whip.”

“Hm, I bet. You know, she…”

Just then, Claire’s eyes flickered back and forth restlessly under her lids, drawing them to an abrupt silence. They stared at her for a few tense minutes, but it became clear she wasn’t waking up yet. Dean rolled out his shoulders. He’d tensed every muscle in his body without noticing it.

“I don’t know how I’m going to…” Jimmy looked toward the ceiling. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to her last time, not really...”

Something had been pinging in the back of Dean’s head for the last few hours, and began to do so more loudly now. “I know,” he said, neutrally. “Consider it a, uh, a do-over. Not many people get that chance.”

Jimmy didn’t look at him, and Dean was much less glad than before. “I wasn’t the best husband, you know,” Jimmy said. “Amelia and I loved each other but, uh...never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He reached out and rested his hand on Claire’s, just as Cas had done, hours earlier. In every movement, Dean saw a reflection of Castiel, though there was a flaw in the glass. “But I really tried to be a good dad. I thought...well, I guess that doesn’t matter anymore, either.”

“What doesn’t matter?” Dean asked uneasily. Christ, he could use a bottle or three of that fancy beer they had in the fridge, which Sam had apparently earned by helping a busful of monks change a flat tire en route to Kansas City. Hell, at this point, he’d take that strange yeast-tinged wine that Hannah brought back from some remote village in the Caucasus.

(She’d held up the scuffed plastic jug with shining eyes and said, “I remember hearing about this. Were you there?”

Then Cas had said something completely nonsensical about fish, and Hannah had laughed--actually _laughed,_  though it was a soft, surprised noise--and Dean realized he wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of angels having a sense of humor or not.)

Jimmy didn’t speak for a moment, though whether it was because he was still fighting with his words, or some other reason, Dean wasn’t sure. “Saying yes, I...I thought I was taking the right...well, the _righteous_ path. Now I’m not even sure...” He gestured at Claire, those familiar hands making unfamiliar shapes. “This is my fault.”

 _Well_ , Dean thought, _that’s another thing you’ve got in common_.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Dean said. “Wait a minute.” He realized that he’d stood again, and was looming over the bed, which caused Jimmy’s eyes to widen, and the narrow. Dean was unnerved enough that he forced himself to retreat back to his chair and sat down heavily. “I just mean,” he said, making himself speak quietly, “that I know a thing or two about making shitty calls, and buddy, what you did? Doesn’t qualify.”

  
“I abandoned my family, Dean. And for what?”

“Hey, look, I’m not gonna deny you took one for the team. You _all_ took one for the team, and because of that, we saved the world.”

Jimmy made a derisive noise. “Doesn’t sound very saved, from what I hear. How can I leave her in...in _this_? Knowing what I did to her before?”

Dean blinked, taken aback. It reminded him that most people had no context for the true scope of the apocalypses (plural, and wasn’t that a bitch) they’d managed to avoid over the years. Not even Jimmy, who’d been eyeball deep in it.  

But then again, he had a point: this was as near to normal as it was going to be for a few years, while they got their respective feet and wings back under them. Things ran, more or less.  It could be worse. But he was still uncomfortably aware of where responsibility for the _less_ rested. Which meant he also knew where the responsibility for the _more_ rested, too.

“I know,” he said eventually, because sometimes he just needed to say something, even if he wasn’t sure what was coming next. _You’re not the only one here who can’t use his words_ , Dean thought. _Afraid I’m the reigning champion in that department._ “I’m not gonna lie, the situation’s, uh, less than ideal.”

“Less than ideal.”

Dean sighed. “Alright fine, it freaking sucks, okay? But as far as apocalypses go, it’s about as warm and fuzzy as you’re gonna get. Trust me, it could have been a lot worse. A _lot_ worse. This is the minor leagues compared to the one that you and me were in together. Hell, maybe you _did_ abandon them, Jimmy, but if you hadn’t? They would’ve died anyway, and you know it. And she’s not alone. She’s--she’s got Jody, who’s _awesome_. And Alex, who...well, I don’t really know what’s going on there, but they’re close. And she’s got us. She’s got Cas. She isn’t...”

Jimmy stared at him, wide-eyed and silent, and Dean just couldn’t seem to stop talking.

“And we...we’re working to make things right. Me, Sam, Cas, all the angels. It’s all hands on deck. We can’t undo the damage overnight but.” He slumped down, all his energy suddenly spent. “The point is, there’s always gonna be some kind of end of the world bullshit happening somewhere, to somebody. And that sucks. But don’t…” For some reason, Dean felt the backs of his eyes burn, and had to take a breath. “Don’t think it wasn’t worth it. Because it was. It was.”

He sagged back in his chair and looked down to find his hand, held out into the empty air, was shaking.

“You’re afraid,” Jimmy said, after a long moment of watching Dean. His way of looking was different, but no less intense. In some ways he was less accustomed to being human than Cas was, now, and it showed. Dean looked away sharply.

“Afraid? I”m not a--”

“You’re afraid I’m gonna go back on my word.”

 _Shit_ , Dean thought, feeling the ice slither through his blood.

“Dean,” Jimmy said, and it was wrong, all of it, from intention to intonation, and Dean suddenly, absolutely needed to be out of this room.

“Just…”

  
“Wait.” Jimmy stood, too, staggering like a sailor who hadn’t been ashore in months. And Dean couldn’t help it. Seeing that familiar body stumble, that brow pinched in surprise or pain, he reached out to grab and steady, just like he’d done dozens of times before.

“What’s with you, man?” Dean asked, letting Jimmy brace against him for the space of a few breaths. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.” Jimmy straightened up and looked down the length of his-- _Castiel’s_ \--body. He held up his hand and flexed the fingers experimentally.

“You _sure_ you don’t want something to eat?” Dean asked, helping him back into his chair. “You’ve been here like, six hours without anything.” He walked over to the dresser. “At least have one of these.”

“Twinkies?”

“Heh, yeah.” Dean moved to toss one towards Jimmy, but remembering the spectacular lack of coordination he’d just witnessed, he opted to walk across and hand it to him instead. “They’re, ah, uh...a family favorite.”

Jimmy tore the package open with his teeth. “Thanks,” he said, around a mouthful of Twinkie. His chewing slowed.  “Wow, that’s...that’s some...That’s not how I remember these at _all_.”

“Really?” Dean asked, brushing Twinkie crumbs from his fingers. “Tastes alright to me.”

“I dunno,” Jimmy said. “I mean, it tastes like I think it should taste. Like, you know, a Twinkie. But then it also tastes like...everything that ever went into it.”

“Like...molecules?”

Jimmy nodded vehemently. “Yeah, actually. Yeah.”

Dean swallowed. “Huh.”

“Well, thanks, anyway.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” Dean felt ill-at-ease. His desire to flee immediately had been blunted but was still digging in under the ribs. Silence threatened to engulf the room after a few moments, as Jimmy turned his attention back to Claire.

“Her, uh, her color looks better.” Dean offered awkwardly.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Jimmy said, taking up her hand again. “Hm. Short hair. I’m gonna guess that wasn’t by choice. Claire had--has?--a, um, serious obsession with princess hair.”

“Yeah. Jody said she...uh, she wasn’t sure what to do. About the fever. She got desperate.”

Jimmy made a thoughtful sound as he watched Claire breathe. ”It’ll grow back. I bleached mine in college.” Dean heard him inhale, as though he were preparing to dive into deep water.  Dean found himself holding his breath in response.

“What would you do, Dean,” Jimmy asked, still looking at Claire, “if I said _no_ , for once in my life?”

The usual methods of persuasion flashed through Dean’s mind, immediately and unwelcomely bloody. He pushed those thoughts aside as best he could. “I dunno,” Dean said, making himself breathe. “Find me some priest or demigod or shaman and…” He shook his head and clenched his jaw. He tried again. “No. I guess I’d deal. You and Claire ain’t the only vessels in this room.”

“Really?” Jimmy met his eye again, and this time the universe held fast. “Trust me when I say, that’s no way to live.”

“Buddy, the way I live in _general_ is no way to live.” Dean pressed the heel of his palm into his eye to avoid the uncomfortable feeling crowding up through his body. The body that Cas had rebuilt, once from nothing but raw meat and bare bone, and countless times after that, in smaller but no less profound ways. He tried to tell himself he’d be okay with it. And he _would be_ , eventually, if it came to it, and yet...and yet he wanted Cas here in front of him, beside him. He needed something to hold onto, and Cas was it.

“I wouldn’t do anything to you,” Dean said eventually. “Because I may be a dick, but I’m not _that_ kind of a dick.”

Jimmy laughed, sort of. “Yeah, well. I guess that goes for me, too.” He didn’t look at  Dean as he said: “Be sure to give Jody my thanks. For everything she’s done. Castiel, too.”

It took a moment for the meaning behind those words to bleed into Dean’s brain. “Wait, what--what’re you saying?”

“I...I, uh, think Claire’s in pretty good hands.” He looked down at his own hands now. “Dean, this body. It’s. It’s not mine. Oh sure, it _looks_ just like the real thing. Right down to, well...never mind.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean abruptly looked away.

“I gathered. The point is...this thing? Isn’t me. I don’t belong in it, or here.”

  
“Yeah, the, uh...the original copy got wasted back during the Big Showdown,” Dean said, suppressing a shudder. “This one, well, I think it’s probably the second or third iteration. Keeps getting rebuilt from the bolts up.” He smiled grimly. “Perk of the job, I guess.”

“I see,” said Jimmy, who clearly didn’t. “I just...I may not have been the kind of dad that Claire deserved, and I wish that things could’ve been different.”

  
“Yeah,” Dean said quietly. “We all do. Cas, too.”

“But they are what they are,” Jimmy continued, after a pause. “And what we are, we are. And what I am is a man who shouldn’t be here--who _can’t_ be here, even if I wanted to be. I can’t live this way, and Claire needs--deserves--someone who _can_ be here, who knows how to be here. I want…” He stopped, and it was clear that words were still eluding him. “I want...to be with my daughter, and my wife. But it can’t be here.” He looked at Dean steadily. “And even if I could, I would keep my word. Whatever else I could or couldn’t do in my life, I can still do that. So, don't be afraid.”

“I...don’t know what to say, man.”

“Don’t say anything, then,” Jimmy said. He sighed. “I, uh...I think I could use that beer now.”

“Yeah, me too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean this to be as angsty as it is, but hey. How are you? Doing well, I hope.


	9. Milk and Honey and Half a Pack of Smokes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fevers, like levees and storms, break.

The change, when it happened, was small: a flicker seen from the corner of the eye, a flash rather than a flood. Sam probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d been someone else, someone who wasn’t intimately acquainted with light, and all its many iterations--the blue-white pour of unbroken grace; the yellow-red of the tainted version, thick as lava; the brittle brilliance of a human soul. Sam had seen them all. No, screw that, Sam had _been_ them all. Been the lightning, and the scorch mark. So he noticed, when it happened, and his head snapped around almost of its own accord.

Alex, deep into her second beer, was slower. From the periphery, he saw her move like she was pushing through water, dark eyes first fixed on Sam and then, a beat later, in the direction that Sam was looking. Her gaze lost its smudged quality and became sharp. Sam was reminded, not for the first time, that Alex’s list of skills involved luring men to their deaths.

“Sam, what…”

“Uh, thought I heard Dean,” he said, swallowing another mouthful of room temperature beer, and vainly attempting to look uninterested. “I thought maybe he was making another beer run.”

Dean had looked drawn and pale when he had emerged for those few moments, wound tight as a tripwire, and twice as likely to explode. He’d just grunted “Nothin’ yet” to their questions, and ignored the gauntlet of stares that followed him to and from the kitchen.

“Just nerves, I guess,” Sam said, with a tight smile.

“Nerves,” she said, frowning, skeptical. The edge of her fingernail traced a rasping line on the glass. She did it again, and Sam winced.  “They’ve been in there a while.”

“Yeah, uh. Cas doesn’t do things by half-measures. I’m sure he’ll wanna be thorough.”

“Claire’s dad’s in there,” Alex said, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Her dad that died. _Years_ ago. Doesn’t that seem super fucking weird to you?” She took a swig from the bottle, then set it down, a little too loudly.

He looked at her for a drawn-out moment, but he felt his attention split along the edges as he imagined the scene unfolding down the hall. “Not really,” he said, eventually.

She choked on the beer in her mouth. “What?” she asked, around a series of startled coughs.

“Something I learned somewhere between God and the Devil: _weird_ is relative.” Sam held up his own bottle, smiling a little. She blinked, hard, unsure if he was being metaphorical or not. Eventually, he took pity on he. “I’ve been infected with so many supernatural, uh, ailments that I’m...I’m not even a case study, I’m a whole damn _textbook_ . I mean, three out of the six people in this building have been to Hell. Two of you have been vampires. Jody’s been--” He faltered. “Y-you know what? Let’s just say, uh, _super fucking weird_ is kinda the baseline around here. Especially where family’s concerned. You know that better than anyone.”

Alex ran her tongue across her teeth. Probably an unconscious movement. Her eyes still watered, and her lashes were matted. “Okay, fair,” she said. “But I still think....”

Down the hall, a door swung open. Whatever she’d planned to say was forgotten as they both sprang to their feet. A lot of things seemed to happen at once: Alex’s chair clattered backwards to the floor; a split second later Jody was peering in from the kitchen, where she’d gone to take out her nervous energy on the dishes. Sam’s hand found its way to Alex’s elbow as the sound of footsteps drew closer.

Cas had lately taken to walking around the bunker without his coat and jacket, or even his tie. On  more than one occasion, Sam had found him standing in the kitchen wearing one Dean’s t-shirts (and once, memorably, in one of Charlie’s t-shirts, until Dean told him she’d be pissed if he stretched out the shoulders--and then promptly dragged him back into their room to help him remove it).

Dean never said, but Sam knew he’d paid a small fortune in cash and god knew what else to buy Cas that new coat. But mostly it stayed hidden away, only seen when Cas had somewhere to be that he’d rather not go. Cas had put it on at some point during the ordeal, early on, when the room was still too crowded, before he’d stepped outside with Hannah to...to say _yes_. Yes, I will, yes.

Sam felt a familiar something claw at his throat, laced with ozone and sulphur,  just for a moment, then it was gone.

He exhaled and looked up to see the coat in question appearing from the gloom, and Cas’--or maybe Jimmy’s--face revealing itself in the lamplight. Sam tightened his hold on Alex’s elbow, but she seemed frozen in place.

It was Jody who spoke first, with soapy water still dripping from the plate she was holding. “So. Which one are you?”

A blink and a squint, like the lights were too bright. Then: “I’m, uh, I’m not her father.”

“Get to the point, damn it,” Alex ground out, attempting to pull away from Sam’s grip. “Is she…”

“She’ll be alright,” Cas said. “She’s asleep.”  He looked...tired. But he smiled, anyway, and Sam dropped his hand away completely. Alex looked like she was half a second from sprinting full-tilt into Claire’s room, but, at the last moment she checked her movements and wrapped herself around Cas, pinning his startled arms to his sides. Then she let go, and disappeared from view.

Cas shrugged off his coat and laid it across the back of the chair she’d vacated. Then he sat down and tugged at the collar of his shirt, like it chafed him, even though he had two buttons undone.

Before the silence could grow too cavernous, Jody said: “Well, I...think I’ll just...give them a minute. Wait, is...Dean still in there?”

Cas shook his head, and picked up Alex’s half-empty beer bottle. “He’s, uh, ‘freshening up’, I think’s the phrase.” He tipped the bottle back and finished it in two long gulps.

“Ah,” Sam said, sitting back down.

“Right,” Jody added. She looked down at the plate in her hand, and then at the large puddle of water that had accumulated at her feet. She sighed. “Damn it. I’ll just go and…”

“Wait.” Cas sat upright suddenly and held out his hand, causing Jody to recoil slightly. “I do have a message for you, though.”

“A message?”

“From Jimmy Novak.”

“Okay,” Jody said, drawing out the word. “What…what kind of message?”

“Don’t worry,” Cas said quickly. “It’s not--He said _thank you_.”

Her mouth fell open, then closed sharply. The click of her throat as she swallowed was loud. “Oh.”

“Mm,” Cas agreed, looking around (probably, Sam realized, for another beer). “He said…” Cas took a deep breath, and turned all of his attention on Jody for his next words. Sam saw the moment when her entire world narrowed down to the head of a pin. “‘Thank you for doing what I can’t, and for helping her become the person she is. Thank you for saving my little girl.’ Those were his words.”

Sam felt a tear roll off his chin before he realized he was crying. He shook his head and straightened his shoulders, reigning in the remaining tears. Just one of the many skills that Dean never knew he’d taught him.

Jody had either never learned that skill, or didn’t care about using it. She nodded and said nothing.

“Oh, um, also,” Cas said, and suddenly the world was the size of itself, and he was just a tired man in a shirt that needed ironing: some single dad in a hospital waiting room, maybe, or the graveyard-shift doctor who’d stitched the kid back together. “He said, ‘ _She has tattoos? Tattoos?_ ’”

Jody laughed, a surprised, wet sound. “I hope to hell you told him I had nothing to do with it!”

“I told him she got those well before she met you,” Cas assured her, “and that tattooing has been used as a coming of age-ritual since the introduction of the appropriate technology, and Claire chose to continue in that tradition, and...and at that point he told me to shut up.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh. “It’s good to have you back, Cas.” He patted Cas’ shoulder and stood up.

“Thank you, Sam. I’m...glad to be here. As ever.”

“Forget the dishes, Jody,” Sam said, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll finish them.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she said. She stooped to mop up the floor with her sleeve, then handed the plate and sponge to Sam. “I think I’m gonna hit the showers again. I’ve got a serious shower deficit. And Sam, I’m stealing your moisturizer. At my age, you get to appreciate the good stuff.”

Sam grinned and took the plate from her hand. “That’s Dean’s.”

Jody let out a low whistle. “Gotta keep up a good skincare regime at the end of the world, I guess. What’d he do, knock over a Sephora on your last hunt?”

“No,” Cas said. “Those were...gifts. From, uh, my family.”

Still smiling to himself, Sam made his way to the sink, and let them debate the hospitality of angels. The smile slipped a little as he reached for the dish towel (“Greetings from Iowa!” in jaunty red letters) and began methodically wiping down the pile of plates from lunch. Or dinner. Or whatever meal they’d last eaten.

_Gotta keep up a good skincare regime at the end of the world._

The world never ended the way that it was supposed to, in one clean, bloody sweep. Over and over, it refused to die right. His mouth twisted in recognition. _Well._   _I know that feeling_.

And then of course, there was what came after. You never got reborn in a shower of sparks, some new and glorious creature; or if you did, you burned and howled and broke and woke up shackled to a military-issue cot in a panic room, or in a hospital or…

Sam shook himself. _But what you do,_  he thought, turning on the faucet and adding more hot water, _after you sweat that poison out,_   _that’s your chance to be remade in a better image._

For a moment, his thoughts turned to a pair of dark eyes, and a mouth always on the verge of smiling. Sliding through the dark of an abandoned church basement, touching the walls and looking for miracles, watching the dry dust breathe through the flashlight beams.

“What do you think you’re going to do, after all this is over?” Elle had asked. She paused, and looked down at the floor, where their footprints mingled in the dirt. Her boots were coated in the stuff. “I mean, you know...putting aside the fact that we’re probably all gonna die.”

“You want to talk in hypotheticals, huh?”

“Never was a world built without a _what if,_ Sam.” She winked at him. “What if’s all we got. Look at me: What if that jackass in New Mexico hadn’t hit me with their car? Who would I be? Hm? What if I had a family? What if I hurt them? What if I was a good person, or a bad one? What if I never remember?  What if I _do_?”  He recalled how her eyes had glittered in the dark, and how he’d felt a strange thrill run through him, and thought it was the wind. “That little thought exercise is at least forty different worlds, by my count.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “But you’re living in this one.”

She smiled. Her teeth were straight and white. “Damn right I am. And in this world, I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him what he wants to do if he lives through this shitshow.”

“Did you just…”

“Yup! Oh, hey!” She darted off into the gloom.

“What? What is it?” Sam swung the flashlight in her direction, but she had turned away from him, with the sharp little points of her shoulderblades casting long shadows across her back. Her Maglite was stuffed unceremoniously into her back pocket. He heard a familiar _click click hiss_ and saw a yellowish flare.

“A miracle,” Elle said, turning to face him. She held up a hurricane lamp. “It’s still got oil in it!” She wrinkled her nose at the smell of burning dust. “Why don’t you hold this? I’m just illuminating your knees from down here.”

“Heh.” Sam clicked off his own flashlight and took the lamp from her.

“So,” she said, bending down to inspect a broken writing desk. “Back to my original question: what are your plans for after this all blows over?”

“I don’t think like that,” Sam said brusquely. Then, more softly: “Not anymore.” Elle hadn’t backed down from her original offer to perform the spell, but then, Sam hadn’t moved in his refusal to take her up on it either. She might be untroubled by the prospect of sacrificing herself, but that didn’t mean he was.  And then things had gone sideways with Dean and Cas (the only direction things ever seemed to go with them), and, yeah. He hadn’t said the words, but he held them in his throat, and they burned.

On a ledge, next to a porcelain lamb statue, he saw an old mirror. He wiped away some of the dust with his sleeve. He turned away from the lamb’s chipped blue eye, and from his own face, and set the lamp next to the mirror. The room grew lighter.

“I think,” Elle mused, slowly casting her eyes to all corners, “that there’s always a disaster waiting somewhere to swallow you whole, if you let it.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I know I’m not. The trick is to make it choke. And maybe spit you out, if you’re lucky.”

“I’ve been spat out plenty of times before,” Sam said. “Been chewed up plenty, too.”

“I know,” Elle said, looking at him with that steady gaze of hers that, many months later, still made all of Sam’s nerves constrict. “Read the books, bought the t-shirt. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Sam said glumly. “I remember.”

“I still need to get you guys to sign one of my books.”

“Uh. Hard pass.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Well, anyway, let’s pretend there’s room in the universe for one more miracle, Sam.” She leaned against the writing desk, making it creak. “Me, I think I’d...go travelling.”

“You don’t do enough of that when you’re hunting?”

“That’s not the kind of travelling I mean. Moving from motel to empty warehouse to campground, never sticking around, that’s...there’s freedom in it, that’s true. No gods and no masters, right?”

“Sure.”

“But I don’t know. I’ve been all over this country, and I’ve left every place. I...always feel like I’m _missing_ something.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Sam said. He’d been ripped up and stuck back together so many times, there were bound to be parts missing, below the surface. But at least he knew who he was.

“Hmm. But I’ve never had a chance to go and look for whatever it is. So that’s what I’d do. What about you?”

Sam smiled gamely. _Why not humor her,_ he thought. _Why the hell not._  “I’d...uh.” He coughed. “I’d, I dunno. I’d still hunt some, I guess. But maybe not as much.” He tried to picture it, a dim shape in the dark, tried to imagine what kind of future he might be allowed, if he was somebody else. “Find...someone. Another hunter, or, or someone who understands the life.”

“You wanna settle down?”

“I mean, I’m not talking...” The word stuck in this throat. “Marriage. Or whatever. But _something_. Something permanent. Or, as permanent as anything ever is in this life.”

She nodded gravely. “Something worth keeping.”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I’ve had plenty worth keeping. And lost...pretty much all of it.”

“And yet, you’re still willing to lose,” she said.

He wasn’t walking out of this, and he knew it. But she was looking at him earnestly in the lamplight, and he wasn’t in the mood to be cruel, so he put on his most charming smile--another thing Dean probably never realized he’d taught him--and said: “Eventually you’ll come out with a win, right?”

She smiled back at him, radiant, and Sam tried not to feel like a bastard for lying to her. “Right.”

She let out a breath. “Well, Sam, I hate to break it to you, it looks like they picked this place clean before they left. Other than a couple of interesting bones from that box over there…”

“Bones? I didn’t see any--”

She grinned and held up a small leather bag. “Way ahead of you. Sphinx, it looks like. It’s been a long time since I came across any of those.”

“Huh,” Sam said, impressed. Then: “They must have gotten some warning after the rest of the Men of Letters were slaughtered. Why’d they lock this place down so tight if there’s nothing important left in here, though?”

“Don’t know,” Elle admitted, pulling out a chair and settling gingerly on it. It tilted a few degrees, but she stayed put. “Pride, probably, or sentimentality. Or maybe just a big _fuck you_.”

“We can’t have it, and neither can you.”

“Exactly.”

“They were _really_ good wards,” she said, almost dreamily. “It was almost a shame to break them.”

“You can always re-draw them.” He sighed. He checked for spiders, then leaned back against the wall. “Well, now what? I guess we should go find Dean and Cas, tell them it’s a bust…”

“Nah, I’d, uh, give them a while,” Elle said, looking into the middle distance. “Those bones…” She trailed off for so long that Sam began to worry she’d fallen asleep. “I think...I think I might have an idea. Or an idea for an idea.” She stood up and cracked her neck. “Bring that light over here.” She walked over to the corner where she’d dropped her duffle bag, and crouched down. “Uh, please?”

“What are you looking for?” Sam asked, once he’d done so. “Is this something that could, uh, make the hypothetical, you know...not-hypothetical?” He felt an awful twinge of hope, and clenched his heart against it.

“I’m looking for...my...book,” she said. Her mouth twisted in frustration as she rummaged through the contents of the bag. “Or, one of them, I mean. I can’t remember...which one, exactly but...ah ha! It’s one of these,” she said, holding up a pair of small books. One was bound in dark, water-stained leather, and the other had a picture of a cartoon cat on it. She caught Sam’s incredulous expression at this second one and shrugged. “I ran out of room in the first one. It was a dollar at Target. How could I say no?”

“Uh, I guess, you--couldn’t?”

“Nope. Now,” she said, instantly serious, her brows drawing in like a stormcloud, “where would it be? Here, you look through this one.” She held out the book with the cat on it, without taking her eyes from her own work. “Look for anything with ‘sphinx’ or ‘sphinges’. Once we’ve found the notes, we can go back to the source and work out a spell from there.” She yawned, then shook her head. “And in answer to your second question: no, afraid not. I can’t see any way around that and...and that’s okay.”

“Elle…”

She continued over him. “But what we _might_ be able to avoid is collateral damage. Or, you know, keep it to a bare minimum. And I think we’d all agree by now that reducing collateral damage is a good thing, yes?”

Sam sighed, then took the book and turned it over in his hands. “Will the lamp last long enough?”

“Hmm?” She didn’t look up as she pointed to the back of the room. “Probably. But, um, there’s some candles in that box on the middle shelf.”

When he’d lit the candles--melting the ends so they sealed themselves where they stood, until yellowed wax ran down the walls-- and turned his flashlight back on, it was almost comfortable to read by. The light revealed very little that Sam hadn’t already guessed in the dark. Except, maybe, for Elle, with her sharp elbows and knees drawn up into an impossible position on the chair as she read, a weird and sinuous shape in the shifting light. (Or was it, Sam wondered, as he scrubbed another dish, she only seemed that way now, with the benefit of hindsight?)  

After several hours, and a slowly building knot between his shoulders, Sam looked up. His neck cracked like brittle plastic, and he grimaced. “Well,” he said, “I think that’s all of them.”

“Good, good,” Elle replied vaguely. She looked up from her own book and tipped her head back to look at the ceiling. Or rather, she seemed to look _through_ it. Sam had seen that look on Cas’ face enough times to know that wherever her mind was going at the moment, it was probably somewhere he’d really like to look at. Probably somewhere with a lot of...waves.

“So, uh, what’s the plan?”

She shook her head, jittery, like a cat, and looked at him. “Not--totally sure yet, but...”

“But?”

“Pretty sure.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Mm. Pretty sure that I’m gonna have to add like, six more steps. Maybe seven. And that’s going to make that time window awfully tight. Too tight for any ground support.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means that everyone will have to be well clear before I--what’s the phrase?--light this bridge? No. Wait. Candle. Before I light this candle.”

“Yeah, no. You’re not doing that. That’s not even on the table.”

“It’s my spell.”

“And it’s _our_ mess.”

Elle pinched the bridge of her nose, hard enough that he was afraid her nails might draw blood. “Sam, it’s late, I’m tired, and we’re all probably going to die within 48 hours. What, exactly, are you proposing?”

And suddenly, he knew, and a strange sense of serenity settled on him. He couldn’t tell if he felt light, or just hollow, but he smiled when said: “Play you for it.”

She opened her eyes. “What?”

He held out his hand and closed his fist. “Rock, paper, scissors.”

“Are you...serious?”

He raised his eyebrows and stared at her. “Ready?”

Finally, she laughed, a bare splinter of sound. “Sure. Best out of three gets to nuke themselves. Sounds  fair.”

And she held out her own hand and counted to three.

****

Sam was jolted back into the present moment by a voice behind him. “I need a drink. Or twelve.”

He let go of the butter knife he’d grabbed under the water and turned to look at Dean. “You look like crap.”

“Yeah, well, I went a little light on the beauty sleep, what with the bedside vigil I had planned all day.” He reached into the fridge and pulled out the jug of weird homebrew wine that Hannah had brought. “Better stay hydrated.”

But Sam had already poured a glass of water and pushed it into Dean’s free hand. Without a word, he took the jug away and put it on the counter.

“Come on, man. First Cas, now you?” Dean sighed, but emptied the glass in a matter of seconds and held it out for a refill. After he’d downed two more, he put the glass in the sink and slid into place next to Sam and picked up a dishtowel. For a few moments, the only sounds were the clink of dishes and the gurgle of water draining away. Then, Dean nudged him. “Just like old times, huh.”

“I fucking hate doing the dishes.” Sam dried his hands on his jeans.

“Pft, yeah, tell me about it. I remember that time Dad was on that ghoul hunt in Barstow and I found, like, twenty plates under your bed. I was appalled, Sammy. _Appalled._ ”

Sam chuckled.  Then: “So, uh...everything...go according to plan?”

Dean shrugged and turned his attention to removing imaginary grime from a plate with his fingernail. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well,” Dean said, his voice suddenly even rougher than usual, “everyone seems to be in the right meat suit, so, you know. That’s a win, in my book.”

“Yeah, it is, Dean.” He retreated to the refrigerator and leaned against it. Sometimes, Dean could only talk with his back turned. “Isn’t it?”

Dean rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah. It’s just--”

Sam waited a beat, then two. “Just?”

“Claire. That kid, just...Sam, was it wrong to give her back her dad just to drag him away again?”

“I don’t think it’s a question of right or wrong here, Dean. I think it’s a question of...least terrible outcomes.”   _Just like a lot of choices we’ve had to make_ , he didn’t say. “And,” he added, more firmly. “It was worth it.”

“Heh. That’s, uh, kinda what I said to Jimmy Novak before he went back up to the Great Suburb in the Sky.”

“Maybe listen to yourself. Not, you know, all the time. Just when you give solid advice.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asked, smiling over his shoulder. Sam ignored the dampness of his eyelashes. “I always give solid advice!”

“Right, right,” Sam said, smiling as well. “If you make your ice cubes out of whiskey, it won’t dilute your drink…”

“See? Solid, if logistically impossible.”

“Never trust a guy named Don...”

“Never take a _joint_ from a guy named Don,” Dean interjected. “There’s a difference.”

“And try to _live_ in the world, because for better or for worse, we’ve had a hand in making it like it is.”

Dean shook his head, confused. “I’ve never said that.”

“No,” Sam said, pushing away from the counter and clapping Dean on the shoulder as he passed, “that one’s mine.”

“One good thing,” Dean said, making Sam pause in the doorway. He didn’t turn around. “One good thing in this whole clusterfuck. Just before Hannah took him up, you know what he asked?”

“What?”

“‘Let me keep this.’ He was so happy to be with her again, just for a few hours. Even though most of those hours were terrible. He said he wanted to remember the the way he felt when he knew she’d be okay.”

“Huh. What’d Hannah say to that?”

“She said it could be arranged.”

“One good thing,” Sam repeated. Just then, Alex and Jody walked into the war room. Jody had her arm slung protectively around Alex, and they were both talking quietly. Too quietly for Sam to hear, but he could read the relief and happiness in their eyes from the other side of the room. “Make that two.”

****

Sam refused to be flown to Hoover Dam. even though the angel possessing the head of operations offered to do it himself. It’d be a two day drive, according to Azariel, who spoke with more than a touch of exasperation on the phone--though whether that was at Sam’s stubbornness, or at having to use a phone at all, Sam couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just a family trait.

“I understand that,” Sam had said, pulling the door of the Continental closed with a loud _thud_. It was a damn ugly car, but Cas had laid some mojo on it that meant it got ridiculously good gas mileage. (Dean was almost ready to cave and ask him to do the same to the Impala, Sam was sure.) “But I…want to do some recon.”

“You doubt the veracity of our reports?”

“No, no, no, not at all. The reports are fine. But some things, you just have to see for yourself.” It’d been weeks since they’d been on a hunt, and the headlong drive into the night for Claire had left very little time for observation. A lot could change in three weeks. He hoped. “And I have an errand to run, out in New Mexico.”

“Errand? What kind of errand?”

“The personal kind.”

“Sam, this is important. A sustainable energy grid is crucial to…”

“No, I get that. I do. And I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Azariel sighed. “I’ll have one of my people do it for you.”

“Some things,” Sam said, “you have to see for yourself. I promise, I’ll be quick, Azariel.” And he hung up.

****

Two hours outside of Las Cruces, where the first of the Joshua trees appeared, Sam pulled the car over. He’d driven all night.  The desert rain was sudden and intense, and the sky flared, blue-gold. That wasn’t why he’d stopped, though. He had seen a broken-down truck a few miles back, but it was empty when he went to investigate. He was pretty sure he saw the owner now hunched over as they walked and lugging something heavy in their hands.

He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. “Hey! Need a hand?” he called, but got no response, and the figure continued to walk away from him. He called again, and, again, nothing.  He frowned, and inched the car forward, until they were level.

That got an instant response. Whoever it was spun around, swinging what turned out to be a gas canister hard enough to dent the door. From somewhere, a knife appeared. “Woah, easy!” Sam said, recoiling away from the window, spooked and now soaked through.

A flash of lightning illuminated the face: pale, with dark, wild eyes. A woman. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, but strands had come loose and clung damply to her chin. “You shouldn’t be out here in this.”

She frowned and shook her head. “What?” she asked, gesturing in confusion. No. Not gesturing. _Signing._ Oh.

Sam sat forward and turned on the overhead light so she could see his face. “I said: You shouldn’t be out here in this. It’s storming!”

She looked at him archly. “Hadn’t noticed.”

He laughed in spite of himself and reached over to open the passenger-side door. She didn’t move.

“So, look, taking rides from random guys is a really bad idea,” Sam said, sheepishly. “But, uh, judging from that, uh...gold...blade...you’ve got there, I think you can probably take care of yourself.”

She looked at him a moment longer, before another flash of lightning made up her mind for her. She scrambled into the car and shut the door. “You’re right,” she said. “I can.”

He smiled. “Is that your car back there?”

She nodded. “Ran out of gas. I don’t have any signal on my phone, but the map said there’s a station a mile from here. I’m just hoping it’s still open.”

Sam looked at his own phone. “I’ve got full bars,” he said.

She blinked. “How?”

“Just. Just...lucky, I guess.” He held it out to her. “You want to make a call? Or, uh, send...a text?”

She laughed. “Sure. Thanks.”

 _You’re welcome_ , he signed, and felt his heartbeat spike suddenly. “I, um, I hope I did that right. I...took a class in college, but it’s been awhile.”

She smiled. “Most people don’t even try. I appreciate the effort.” She wiped the water from her face and ran her hand through her hair. While she was absorbed in texting, Sam examined the hilt of the knife she carried. Only an inch or two was visible from her belt, but something in it set off a _ping_ of recognition in him. She she caught him staring and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh! Uh, sorry. I was just...admiring your taste in knives.” He pointed. “Antique?”

She looked at him again, long and steady, and Sam felt sure whatever was set off in him was echoing in her, like the ring of a distant bell. “Something like that,” she said. “You some kind of antiques expert?”

“Something like that.” He smiled and held out his hand. The rain streamed down the windows, and he felt young and alive. “I’m Sam.”

She smiled back, and his heart rate spiked again. “Eileen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! Lovingly handcrafted at the rate of 100 (okay, sometimes 84) words a day, just for you.
> 
> Thanks to BurningTea, as ever, for beta-reading. :)


	10. The Age of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things that are hidden, and things that are seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this comes from the Mountain Goats song of the same name. However, ironically, it's [ this song](https://youtu.be/Hajocz5c59w) that inspired this work overall.

Claire slept the rest of that night, on into the next day. At sunset Castiel could feel the restlessness creeping into Alex, and even Jody, though she hid it better. Then again, there seemed to be a kernel of restlessness in the pit of everyone in this place. Sometimes it retreated, momentarily drawn back, in quiet moments over coffee or cleaning weapons. (This was, Sam joked, Dean’s idea of a perfect date.) But still, always, it was there. They’d all borne losses beyond bearing, and that had made them queer, prone to wander. Some people let their former selves stand empty, like abandoned houses, but not this family. Whatever had damaged them initially, they all carried it with them, even after they’d healed: the inertia of a shattered thing, the way a bowl may be mended with gold, and in its wholeness carry with it the memory of its breaking.

Cas has been broken and mended many times.  He settled and resettled his wings, and tried to offer what comfort he could.

“Why won’t she wake up?” Alex asked, sitting cross-legged at the foot of Claire’s bed, when Cas brought her a glass of water.

“She will.” He watched as she drank it all, then tipped her head to the side to rest her cheek against his hip, like a cat. His hand hung uncertainty in the air for a moment before he let it fall, lightly, against the crown of her head. “It’s, uh, it’s...you probably can’t see it, but before she was unconscious. Now, she’s just asleep.” Unconscious, with a soul like boiling lead, and now in cool sleep, tempered, full of light.

“We were—we were gonna go on a roadtrip,” Alex said. “When it looked like things were getting normal again. Have t-shirts made. ‘I Survived the End of the World and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt’. You know what I mean?”

“I’ve never received any commemorative apparel.” She tilted a sideways glance up at him, but he kept his hand where it was. “But—you could still do that. Take a roadtrip. Make, uh, apocalypse-themed clothing.”

“I don’t know. Every time I think we’re going to...get the chance for anything, something always goes wrong. I wanted…” But what she wanted, she didn’t say. “It’s just never the right time.”

“No,” Cas agreed. “It never is. Probably never will be. But don’t let that stop you.”

Now, she pulled away from him. “What?”

He held up his hands. “I know a lot about battle, and very little about love, but I can tell you: a good commander makes their own timing, because the world will never give it to you freely.”

Alex looked down at her hands.”What if she’s different when she wakes up? What if she doesn’t feel the same anymore?”

“She’ll be different, because it’s impossible not be. But,” he added, more gently, in the voice that he’s learned humans prefer for good news, “not everything changes. Have faith.”

She shut her eyes tight for a moment, and when she opened them again, they were clear and sharp. “Okay.”

He moved away from her, but just as he reached the door, she said: “Will she remember...any of it? You told her about her dad, right?”

“Yeah, I did.” He didn’t turn around. “And I don’t know. She might.”

“What if she asks? What do we…”

“The truth. If she asks. If she doesn’t? Then nothing.” This was something that they’d discussed, the three of them, with their heads close together around the kitchen table, as Alex took up her vigil.

Behind him, he could sense Alex’s spike of displeasure. “She has a right to know.”

“She does. And she has a right to forget, too, if that’s easier for her. You two...you two have your whole lives to find out, um, what makes you tick, I think’s the phrase. I’m sure you’ll figure out the right thing.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Alex said: “Y’know, Claire told me you could be a major dick...”

Something in him seized up, momentarily. “She’s right.”

“But she also said that you’re the only one who never treated her like her feelings were wrong.”

“Jody...”

“Jody doesn’t know everything. Not about Claire, not about me.”

Wholeness sometimes meant keeping parts concealed. Not from shame or subterfuge, but because you had to learn how to belong to yourself before you could freely give yourself to anyone else. Cas was only beginning to learn this lesson now, after a lifetime spent under the eye of Heaven, merciful as an interrogator’s lamp.

“And,” Alex continued,  “I know there’s things we don’t know about Jody. But Claire said you—you knew.” She paused. “She also said that you busted her out of juvie.”

“What, child prison?” He bowed his head and smiled, mostly to himself. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Cool.”

When he’d closed the door, he felt a weariness descend, one that he’d been keeping at bay mostly through his powers of pretending things weren’t happening. He found himself in the bedroom, loosening his tie and sitting on the bed with his hands between his knees. He tuned it out, tuned it all out: the gossamer tremor of the unconscious prayers, the voices in the other rooms, the distant hum of his siblings’ voices (this last had never quite sounded the same after he’d had his graced removed; probably his hearing had been permanently damaged). All these things vibrated around him, like he was a spider in a web that was never quite still.

Until it was. Into the perfect silence, Castiel let himself sink, until he was completely submerged.

 _There are none_ , Hannah had said, her voice pleading rather than scolding. _Not anymore._

_None? None? How—could that be? The fall?_

She turned sharp as a blade, then, as she looked at him. _Do you really want to know the answer to that question, Castiel?_

So many had been unaccounted for, so many factions, so much fighting, that he hadn’t noticed. Or, he’d never had time to notice. And then, of course, there had been the stolen grace, filling his head with static and his body with poison, and...

He’d just never had time to think about it. So he made time now.

One by one he turned the channels back on, and called out, a hailing signal into space.

And then he waited.

****

Dean found him, much later—how late, he couldn’t say, because he’d let time unspool from his grasp—-as he sprawled in the middle of the bed.

“Cas?”

He’d been lying with his eyes open, unblinking, without realizing it, and he closed them for a moment before he turned his head, trying to realign everything. “Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I…yeah,” He cleared his throat. “Any update on Claire?”

He could feel Dean’s eyes narrow in his direction. “Seriously? You didn’t hear?”

Now there was a pulse of alarm and he sat up. “No, I was...I was thinking. Apologies. Is she okay?”

“ _Okay?_ She’s _awake,_ dumbass!”

“Oh! Oh. That’s...that’s wonderful. I should probably—” He stood, but then Dean was in his space, with a hand splayed across his chest, and he stopped. It was slight—the kind of touch Dean might use on an infant, or a small animal, but Cas let himself be pushed anyway, until he sat back down.

“Jody and the girls are having their own reunion right now. I, uh, I think we should give ‘em a while before we invade the place with testosterone.”

“Uh. Alright.”

“Hey. Look at me,” Dean said, lifting Cas’ chin with his thumb and index finger. “You sure you’re alright? I mean, I know you’re all powered up again but, if it hit her, it hit you, right? ‘Cause they’re...linked, or whatever?”

He nodded, as much as he could. “Yes. I mean, yes, they were linked, her illness and mine. Hannah’s, too, and all angels or vessels that came in contact with the Darkness.”

“And it’s...done now? It’s not gonna pop back up again like some horror movie villain or some shit?”

“Well, there are very few guarantees in this life Dean…”

“Ugh.”

“But yes, I feel fairly confident in saying it’s been dealt with.”

“And you’re _sure_ it was the Darkness?” Dean had, almost absently, begun to run the pad of his thumb across the point of Cas’ chin, letting it sweep from jawbone to bottom lip in a way that threatened to send Cas into a trance.

“Mm. Mm-hm.” He shook himself a little, and continued. “Yeah, it’s...it was. There are...traces that remain. Scars, if you like.”

Dean stopped his hand. “Scars? Like...like your wings?” For a moment a frisson of tension travelled through Dean, before he relaxed again.

“Something like that, yes.” He exhaled heavily. “Claire and I have, um...a matching set. So do Hannah and Caroline. And I suspect Lee does, as well. But at least we know how to heal, now. All of us.” _All of us that remain._

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“Miraculous.”

“Like hell,” Dean said. “ _You_ did that. You didn’t wait for any divine intervention.”

“I _am_ divine intervention.”

“Heh, okay, fair.” He pushed against Cas’ shoulder and Cas fell back, sideways across the bed. A moment later, the bed gave a small creak as Dean joined him, rolling onto his stomach so he could lay his head on Cas' chest. “But, you know, the dizziness, the, the Mikey Waters eating-the-floor party trick. That's all gone?”

“If you mean, are the effects of the illness gone, then yes. I have a, uh, a clean health bill.”

“Bill of health.”

“Bill of health,” he amended, feeling sleepy.

Dean's head moved, and Cas brought his arm around his shoulder instinctively. “So, what is it, man? Why've you been sulking in the dark like your boyfriend forgot to buy you flowers for your birthday. Wait. When is your birthday? Do you even _have_ a birthday?”

There was a note of giddiness in Dean's voice, though whether it was from relief, or anxiety, or something else, Cas couldn't tell. “I was called into being before time technically existed.” He paused. “It was a Tuesday.”

“What, re—holy shit, you're trolling me.”

“Maybe.” He turned to kiss the side of Dean's face. “You can pick my birthday for me.”

Dean let out a low sound. “Big responsibility.” He sighed, and Cas knew he hadn't gotten away with it. “But seriously, what's eating you?”

“Dean, I...”

And part of wholeness, too, was letting others see the broken places, where you were sharp and strange and past saving, so that they could let the light in, so that, maybe, they could save you. He felt the tears well up, hot and clamoring to fall. He let out a shaky breath.  “Hannah—told me something. Earlier. When we were discussing...family matters.”

Against him, Dean went dangerously still. “Oh, I do _not_ like how that sentence started.” He sat up uneasily. “But, I’ve been—I thought we were okay now. Me and your family. I’ve...I’ve been trying to not...”

Cas reached for him. “Not about you, Dean. You’ve been wonderful. About, um, me.”

“Okay, I like that even less. It’s one thing if they wanna be dicks about me, but...”

“No, listen.” He took another breath. “The Host is made up of angels of different rank and design, each according to its purpose.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean said cautiously. “I’ve sat through Angel 101.”

“Our numbers...are not infinite.”

Dean fell silent, his breathing quieting down the whisper of a moth’s wing against Cas skin.

“So many of us have fallen, in one way or another—and I include myself in that, by the way—that it’s easy to...lose track of each other. In a way that I never thought would ever be possible.”

“Okay.”

“I....” He stopped, the words rooting his tongue, filling his mouth with thorns. Dean didn't move, didn't speak, all of his earlier bluster gone as he lay against Cas and let him find his way to him in the dark. Cas tried again. “Many were lost. I—Dean, the seraphim. They're. They're gone. I'm all that's left.”

“Oh.” It was a drop of sound in an ocean of deafening silence, and Cas clung to it. “ _Oh.”_ And then Dean was on him, his weight pressing him into the mattress, into his body, into this reality, here, now. There were elbows on either side of him and a pair of gentle eyes above him. “Hey,” Dean said, and kissed him. “Hey. Look at me.”

“Dean. I _killed_ them.”

“And you _saved them,_  Cas. You saved the rest of them. Man, just think. Just think what would have happened if you hadn't made that stupid fucking deal with the devil. Huh? What would've happened is that we'd be toast. Finished. _Finito_. Game over, man.”

“It was a team effort.”

“Damn straight it was. And you're part of that team.”

Cas turned his head away.

“Cas. How many of your brothers and sisters have died since that last battle?”

Cas frowned. “None.”

“How many got their wings back?”

“Dean...”

“Answer the question.”

Cas sighed. “All of them.”

“How many dead teenagers we got in this bunker right now?”

He felt himself begin to smile, in spite of himself. “None.”

“That's right.” Dean leaned down again to kiss him. His aim was, as always, true. “Don't get me wrong, that—that's some heavy shit you're dealing with. I, uh, I'm not gonna tell you to rub some dirt in it and walk it off, okay?”

“Sam will be pleased.”

“Hey, I'm trying here.”

“I know.” He raised himself up a little, meeting Dean halfway. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” Dean said, breathless, when they moved apart. “Just, take it easy on the self-flagellation, okay?”

“Okay,” Cas said, feeling a sly, deft hand move its way down his shirt front, undoing buttons as they went.

Regrets were like the broken lines on a highway, he mused, as he felt Dean work a slow path down his body. They came one after another, after another. But—he hissed as he felt a hand move up his thigh, towards his zipper—you could always move forward, on, outward. You didn't always have to stay broken. You could be whole. You could make your own miracles.

“Yeah,” Dean said, from somewhere near the floor, and suddenly Cas' shoes and socks were being pulled off, and set on the ground. “I'm gonna need you to come back from wherever it is you're at right now, or else this isn't gonna be very much fun.”

“Sorry,” Cas said. “I was just...thinking about what you said.”

“Hmm,” Dean said, in a voice that made all of Cas’ nerve endings do peculiar things. “Save that for later. Think about this instead.” And then Dean’s mouth was on him, fever-hot and lush, and his hands traced sweeping lines across whatever parts Dean could reach. Then Dean pulled away, and the change in temperature made Cas shiver.

“Well, what are you thinkin’ now?”

“I’m...uh, I’m thinking, _what the hell do I have to do to get Dean to keep doing that?_ ” Cas said, through a throat grown thick like honey.

“Hm,” Dean said. He flicked his tongue experimentally, causing Cas to shiver again. “That’s still too much thinking.”

Cas grabbed onto the blanket with both hands and held on. It went on like that, as far as he could tell, for nearly an hour, until finally, when Dean asked him one more time, all he could do was shake his head and pant.

He had just enough sense left to hear the grin in Dean’s voice as he said: “Now that’s more like it,” before he took Cas in his mouth one last time. His breath caught as he hung, suspended, and everything receded: there was nothing in the world except what he could feel right now, nothing except the twin thunder of his and Dean's heartbeats. Then he shattered.

“You know,” Dean said, as he climbed back into bed, “I don’t know that I’ll ever get sick of that.”

“What, fellatio?” They rearranged themselves until they were finally facing in the right direction.

“Hah, well, yeah. But, I mean, you—you light up like a lightning bolt.”

“Yeah. Sorry about the mirror,” Cas said, his words soft and hazy. He reached for Dean and settled on top of him. “And the clock.”

“Buddy, as long as it ain’t my skull cracking, I’m cool with it. I’ll replace as many mirrors and clocks as I need to.”

“Hmm. That’s heartening.” He gripped Dean’s wrists and pulled them above his head. “Stay like that.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but smiled, and stayed put.  “You’re so _competitive._ ”

“I’m _dedicated_ to _improvement,_ Dean.”

“Well, who am I to argue?”

****

Later, in the evening of the second day, when Claire and Alex and Jody had gone to bed, Dean turned to Cas and said, unexpectedly: “So what about vessels?”  
Cas tore himself away from contemplating the marvelous instrument that was Dean’s right hand. “What about them?”

“Well, it’s just...I thought, you know, Heaven’s gotten on the whole Free Will kick, more or less.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And that means no more angelic breeding program, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“So, no more vessels?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas admitted, looking at the ceiling. “That was never my department. But...I think there will always be vessels. Our species are too closely linked for that bond to ever fully be broken. But hopefully it will happen with knowledge and consent.”

“Or maybe out of big, dumb love.”

“Anything’s possible,” Cas said, smiling softly.

“Even archangel vessels?”

“I...I’m not sure. There are no more archangels, either, so what use would Heaven have for an archangel vessel?” He heard the cold edge of dispassion in his voice and cleared his throat. “But anything’s possible.”

“So, me and Sam. Uh. We might be the last.”

Under the covers, Dean's hand tightened around his.

“It's very likely,” Cas said, watching his face closely. “But I know two things for sure.”

“What?”

“One, Bert and Ernie are gay...”

Dean's eyes widened, and then he laughed until they watered. When he'd caught his breath he said: “So what's the second thing?”

He pressed his hand to Dean's chest, right against the glyph carved over his heart—in a thousand years, who knew, archeologists would find his bones and wonder at them. “New age or not, the world will never see your like again.”

Dean's eyelids fluttered as the force of the words hit him. He still struggled with the concept of devotion, but with any luck, they had time to work on that. 

When he'd been quiet so long that Cas thought he was asleep, Dean whispered his true name—the one creature in the universe, besides himself, who knew it any more, or would ever know it. Then he curled into Cas, until his head rested under Cas' chin. 

They fit together like they were made for it, the way they knew they never could with anybody else. There would be no more after them. They held on, and did not let go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to [BurningTea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningTea/pseuds/BurningTea) for nursing me through my existential writing crises (and beta reading).
> 
> And thank you for reading. I'm glad you're here with me, at the end.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of an experiment for me (though, really, everything I write is an experiment for me). _What is Hidden, What is Seen_ was my anger-fueled response to Season 10, though it mellowed into something approaching pure wish fulfillment. I am interested in consequences. The _Supernatural_ world is not unscathed, and neither are the people and creatures in it. So fair warning: this is, literally, a look at what comes after _What is Hidden_ , and while there is certainly a plot, I'm interested in character exploration. I do hope you'll stick around and see where it goes. I'm as curious to see where that is as you are. Know that I like happy endings, but I also know that they aren't easy. 
> 
> **Author's Note:** I've said it elswhere, but I might as well say it here, too. This will almost certainly be the last _Supernatural_ fic I write, barring a miracle. Thanks for playing along at home.
> 
> Come say hello. :)  
> 


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